


The night is near, but I don't fear it

by AislingRoisin (JayBird345)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Elven blood, Elven gifts, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Introspection, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Touch-Empathy, War of the Ring, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayBird345/pseuds/AislingRoisin
Summary: “The night is near, but I don’t fear it. There is nothing that can frighten me now.” Making peace with yourself in the aftermath of unexpected survival is difficult, but it gets easier if you trust someone enough to let them help you.
Relationships: Eventual Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Faramir (Son of Denethor II) & Lothíriel, Lothíriel & Ivriniel, Minor Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Lothíriel, Minor Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), background Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Comments: 22
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue: Crumbling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HybrisAnaideia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HybrisAnaideia/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR.
> 
> Note: Thanks to my beta Hybris who is as amazing as she is fabulous. Seriously she puts up with my random binges in different fandoms. Great friend, a great writer and great beta.

**Prologue: Crumbling**

* * *

The sounds of steel meeting steel echoed in the torn-up courtyard as a cloaked figure made their way through scorched sidestreets. Not much remained of the once-proud capital beyond ruined walls, crumbling towers, and broken streets of stone. Leather gloved hands knocked lightly on a side door, aware of the guards watching them from the various roofs of the city.

Waiting to be let in, they heard the distant, tired cheers of the soldiers as more provisions were being delivered to them from Minas Tirith. Lord Denethor had come to personally congratulate his son for recapturing East Osgiliath and pushing back the enemy. It was a much needed, hard-earned victory that had rekindled a dim sense of hope for their people.

The door swung open, jolting them out of their musings as a tired, weathered face stared at them. Grim, sorrow-filled eyes burned into their back as they were escorted to the Captain's quarters. They carefully stepped over broken steps as the wind blew through the cracks and small holes in the walls. The sounds of celebration were dim and muted, much like the faint roar of the sea, as the silence within the building seemed to swallow any happiness whole.

Pausing as their guide suddenly stopped, they stared as the Captain stepped out of the door, seeming to be one part shocked and two parts resigned to see them there. The floor creaked ominously under his weight, considering the state of the building, as he closed the door behind him.

"Father shouldn't have brought you here. It's still too dangerous." His words had them huffing in disbelief. When the Steward told you to do something, it wasn't something anyone could refuse or quibble about.

"I know my duty. The Steward has asked for my assistance in uncovering more about the Enemy." Faramir stared disapprovingly as he blocked the entrance with his body. A part of them couldn't help but think his protectiveness was far too late; the rest took note of how exhausted he looked.

"I am to stay for the day, then return to Minas Tirith, as it is too dangerous for me to remain here any longer." Perhaps this could appease the man and let them do their job. The sooner it was done, the sooner they could leave.

Their eyes glanced around the ripped apart hallway. Faint traces of grand and beautiful tapestries covered the walls, still lingering long after the items were gone. The torn walls spilled washed out, gray daylight into the building, revealing the patches of walls that were so much lighter in colour. Weapons and waterjugs littered the floor, a worn whetstone and small rations of food, carefully protected from rats, hung from what remained of the ceiling.

Gentle hands gently grasped theirs as Faramir stared at them beseechingly. What a contrast he made a gentle and caring face in front of them, with a torn wall behind him revealing the black smoke of extinguished pyres from the burning dead. So many lost in reclaiming this crumbling memory of a long-gone past.

"I don't want you touching that stuff. It is vile, full of evil and darkness. You are too young-" A bitter laugh escaped their lips as the Captain paused to watch them in growing sadness.

"I am years past my majority. In fact, many could claim I am too old." Ruefully looking at them, they pulled their hands away, stepping back from his kind regard. He was far too late to try and shield them from the horrors of the world. Memories of screams and violent hands killing them over and over flashed behind their eyes as they stared dispassionately at the tired man. So many deaths they had relived, so many ways they had felt themselves be betrayed and violated by people who were no longer there to be punished.

' _What is one more horror in the scheme of things?_ ' They thought, sensing even from here a malicious taint, flickering from behind that door.

"Lothíriel, please. I am _begging_ you. You are no warrior hardened from battle, you don't need to face this. You shouldn't _have_ to face this." Staring at his pleading face, a small part of Lothíriel wished that was possible. That she would not have to see and experience any more horror. But this wasn't about her, and she had a duty to her Steward. Ever since her family gave her to Denethor, she lost any hope of being spared from the evils of the world.

The silence grew between them as she heard a clamour rising from outside.

"-hat do you mean Lothíriel is here?!" A deep voice echoed up the stairs as footsteps raced toward them. Faramir's face relaxed as he glanced with anticipation at the stairs behind her. Harsh breathing filled the space as she felt the man stop behind her, his gaze piercing her back with its intensity. Closing her eyes, she refused to turn around to face him; now that Boromir was here, the Steward was on his way as well.

"Boromir! I didn't come to ask your permission! Do not be difficult. She has a duty to perform!" Lothíriel refused to flinch at the sound of his angered voice. Turning her gaze to the closed door, she began to wonder how long it had stood there. Who had made it? What had the people in these walls suffered when the great plague destroyed everyone stuck inside? If she touched these walls would she feel their anguish? Hear their screams?

Boromir's voice grew louder as he continued to argue with Denethor, while Faramir continued to block the door. Her heart ached as she recalled her brothers doing something similar when she was young. There was a closed-door back then too. Something they didn't want her to see. Something she wasn't allowed to watch.

"For pity's sake, she is family! And a young girl who has never trained to be a soldier and face the worst of this damned war. You ask too much from her."

"She has a skill that can be useful to us! And it is precisely because she is family that she must do this. We have a duty to guard and watch over our people. Our line has sacrificed so much throughout the years, both men _and_ women. You will understand when you are Steward; sometimes we have to ask terrible things from even our family to protect our home." Taking the Steward's little speech as her cue to get to work, Lothíriel walked toward Faramir, invading his space as she reached behind him to push against the door.

"Cousin...you have to move." Hesitating for a moment, Faramir turned his head away as he slid out of her space and allowed her to walk into the Captain's quarters. The room was only moderately better than the rest of the building. A makeshift table had been scraped together from bricks and pieces of wood, with a small cot in the corner for rest. Light streamed into the room from the small, intact window, framed by two large and worn curtains.

There on the table lay a short blade, simple in design, rusting and old. Pausing just before it, she could feel the wretchedness of its aura leaching into the air. It was thick and lingering, a miasma that threatened to choke anyone foolish enough to come near.

"This isn't right." Faramir whispered, coming to stand next to her as they both stared at the thing. Harsh whispering could be heard from outside the doorway, as Denethor and Boromir continued to bicker.

"No, it's not." she agreed, huffing at the small look of surprise from his face. It's not as if she did this for pleasure. It had been a very long time since she had done anything to do with her gift for pleasure. "But it is an evil that must be done. For the greater good." Taking a deep breath, she centred herself as she pulled off one of her leather gloves. Clenching and unclenching her hands, Lothíriel slowly reached toward the blade, trying to hide the tremors from her hand. Faramir grasped her hand, just as it was about to touch it, giving her a pained look as he silently shook his head.

"Faramir, let go."

"No. This is not necessary. I already know what is happening, so you don't need to touch that blade." Searching his eyes for a hint of a lie, Lothíriel wondered what kind of dream he must have had to say that so boldly.

"What did you dream about?" While he lacked control over it, a frustrating aspect that had earned him the title of "useless" from his father, her cousin had his own gift from their bloodline.

"Something worse is arising." Looking at her intensely Faramir was cut off from explaining anymore as Denethor burst in, looking annoyed at his son for stopping her from touching the blade.

"Well? What are you waiting for, girl? Get on with it." The man ignored Boromir's concerns as he stalked closer to the duo.

"Father, _this_ is a _Morgul-Knife_ , carried by the _Nazgul_. Who knows what curse lays on the thing?" Faramir continued to plead, his grip tightening on her hand as he tried to pull her hand away.

"A Nazgul weapon? This is too dangerous. We don't know the level of harm it can inflict on her should she touch it!" Boromir jumped in, both brothers teaming up against Denethor as he scoffed and waved away their concerns, his gaze set on Lothíriel.

Turning her gaze back on to the blade, she wondered what horrors it would reveal. If the emotions are strong enough, she would see what its owner had experienced. Perhaps the creation of the Orcs? A secret plan from the Enemy?

"Father, I have been having the same dream now for the last few days. It began just before the orcs attacked." Faramir's voice jolted her out of her head, while Boromir angled his body so he was hiding her from Denethor's view.

"Dreams? Faramir your gift is as disappointing as your ability to defend this city from the enemy. Useless and inconsistent, continuously letting me down and embarrassing our name." Wincing at the remark, Lothíriel bit her lip as she watched Faramir flinch and look hurt at his words.

"Father, for pity's sake, just listen to what he has to say first before cutting him down." Boromir ran his hands through his hair, as he looked exasperated at the whole room. With the way he glanced at her and Faramir, Lothíriel could almost see him planning to grab both of them and storm out of the room.

" _Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

_In Imladris it dwells;_

_There shall be counsels taken_

_Stronger than Morgul-spells._

_There shall be shown a token_

_That Doom is near at hand,_

_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

_And the Halfling forth shall stand"_

Faramir's voice was no louder than a whisper as he stared at Denethor with a vulnerable look on his face. Denethor's face grew cold at the words, an uncomfortable silence filling the room as Lothíriel wondered how the Steward would react. Faramir had never been wrong when he had his special dreams, and as much as Denethor ridiculed his power he was no fool. Turning right around, Denethor called for Boromir as he stepped out of the room.

Giving her a soft look, Boromir gently pulled the glove back on her hand before kissing her forehead goodbye. Faramir sighed loudly, pulling her into a strong hug and turning her away from the blade. The room seemed a bit warmer as she felt her cousin tremble in relief.

"Praise the Valar. You're safe." Leaning against his embrace, Lothíriel bit her lip as a part of her wanted to tell him that no, she wasn't. Not so long as she could prove useful to her Uncle, she would never be safe.

Smiling weakly as he stepped back, she nodded absently as he told her that she should return home before it gets dark and that he would escort her out. Boromir and her Uncle were whispering furiously as she and Faramir stepped back into the hall. The daylight seemed to highlight Boromir with light, while also casting shadows over her uncle's face. His gaze looked almost menacing as she watched him grasp Boromir's shoulders with a possessive grip.

"My place is here with my people. Not in Rivendell!" Pausing at the name of the elven city, Lothíriel wondered if Isildur's Bane would rise again there. Faramir's dreams were never wrong.

"Would you deny your own father?" It was moments like this that she could almost forget how cold and cruel her Uncle could be. He sounded so caring and sad at the thought. The image of a loving father asking for something small from his son. Memories of another dark-haired man, speaking to her in a loving soft voice, flickered past her eyes as Lothíriel was hit with a wave of homesickness.

' _And yet...There is no home to return to, is there?'_ She thought. Her mother was dead, her father never home, busy helping Denethor rule and Boromir fight, and brothers scattered between the two cities...Where could she return to?

' _I haven't had a true home since I was a child. All that's left is duty.'_ Tilting her chin up defiantly, she watched as Faramir stepped forward and included himself in their discussion.

"If there is a need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead."

"You?" Denethor seemed to loom over Faramir as he looked at him with such coldness, "Ha, I see...A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality."

Even though he said those words levelly, Lothíriel could sense that he meant them in mockery. Faramir clenched his hands as he stared stoically back at Denethor's dismissive glance.

"I think not. I trust this mission only with your brother." The steward took his time saying each word, as if he wanted to burn the words in both Faramir and Lothíriel's minds. "The one who will not fail me."

Stepping closer to Faramir, Lothíriel grasped his hand and squeezed softly in support. They exchanged looks of grief, both knowing that Boromir would obey if it meant saving their people.

The journey he was about to take is a dangerous one, and as Lothíriel and Faramir watched him get ready to depart while she would go with the Steward to Minas Tirith, she wondered if she would ever see him again.

* * *

Cold white stone glistened as they made their way up the city levels, the sun dying the whole city in shades of red, gold and orange in a wondrous splendour. Sitting quietly in the carriage with Lord Denethor, Lothíriel stared out the window into the distance. Osgiliath's ruins were bathed with the red light in the distance, a brilliant red ruby to the eye. Lothíriel prayed that her cousins would return to her safe and sound. They had been more present in her life than her own brothers, these last few years. Boromir was a steady rock to lean on, dependable, brave and just. Faramir was just as brave and dependable yet he too had a " _gift_ ", no matter what the Steward said, and he _knew_ how it could affect your life.

' _Swallow you whole...like the shadows swallow the light.'_ She pondered, unwilling to look away as the ruined city slowly disappeared into the darkness of the night.

Reaching her abode, Lothíriel turned at the foot of the stairs to say goodnight, yet one glance had her words stuck in her throat. There in the Steward's hands was a bundle of leather, wrapping something inside.

"Shall you permit me to come inside with you Lothíriel? Your father won't be joining you tonight I'm afraid. He has too much work manning the armies in the lower levels." His voice was so soft and light, as if he were some kind Uncle wishing to make sure she wouldn't be alone. The moon peeked out of the clouds, briefly lighting the street and causing something inside of the bundle to shine lightly.

"Uncle-" What could she say? He seemed to sense her hesitation as he cut her off with a smile.

"You wouldn't deny me the right to make sure you are safe and well after travelling with me to see your cousins, would you?" Hiding her trembling hands she gave a small curtsey as she moved to the side so he could come in first.

"Of course not."

"Good. Then let's proceed shall we?" Walking behind him, Lothíriel wondered how she hadn't noticed that taint before. How could a simple bit of leather hide such a distinct miasma?

Walking to the study, Denethor made himself at home at her father's desk before placing the bundle on top.

"Come, sit. There is something I need you to do before your day is done." Flipping open the leather, a frightfully familiar Morgul blade lay there, shining maliciously in the faint candlelight.

"You know what has to be done." Swallowing painfully, Lothíriel sat in front of him as he pushed the blade closer to her. The shadows in the room seemed to bend towards the cursed thing, taking all warmth from the room, leaving nothing but coldness and terror. The Steward regarded her carefully as he leaned forward as if he was sharing a secret only for her to hear.

"The Palantir costs too much of my energy to use so frequently. We know that Sauron will strike again within the year. Boromir can only do so much during his journey, so it is up to us to make sure that Gondor is best prepared for what is to come." He looked at her so earnestly and passionately, Lothíriel felt guilty for not trying harder. This was her duty, what her family had intended when they passed her to Denethor's care all those years ago.

"Save Gondor. Save our people, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth." His voice echoed in the room as she took off her gloves and slowly reached out towards the blade. One hand touched the handle and the other grazed the blade carefully before a burning agony spread from her fingertips to her face. Opening her mouth she screamed in terror and pain as images assaulted her mind and the darkness consumed her.


	2. Chapter 1: Fractured Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks to my beta Hybris who is as amazing as she is fabulous. Seriously she puts up with my random binges in different fandoms. Great friend, great writer and great beta.

**Chapter 1: Fractured Heart**

* * *

Her screams echoed into the hall, bringing a stampede of people running to her side as she coughed and choked through her tears.

"Lothíriel! What's wrong? What happened?" Callused hands grasped her shoulders in panic, yet still, she could not stop her cries. "Help! Someone call father!"

More voices echoed around the room as she was too blinded by tears and pain to even try and look around her.

"No, someone should call a healer first. Lothíriel breathe! You need to breathe." Another, still young, but older than the first speaker's, voice spoke up, seeming to pick her up and place her on a chair.

Lights flashed as she tried to open her eyes fully, blurred with smudged colours and blobs surrounding her. She could still feel the bite of the edge of the knife against her throat as someone tore it open with a blunted knife. Her abdomen ached with pain from the multiple stab wounds she had received, as her baby was killed in her body.

' _Hurt in my home. I was supposed to be_ _ **safe**_ _there.'_ She thought, screaming as the images and sensations repeated over and over. Gripping the edges of the book, she felt overwhelmingly frightened as her fingers refused to move.

"What's she holding?"

"Her fingers are white...Get it away from her!"

Different hands grabbed her wrists and pried her fingers away from the book. Shrieking at being held still, she suddenly collapsed into the chair the instant the book was away from her, gasping as the sensations began to fade.

"She _killed_ my baby! She killed _me_!" Lothíriel's voice cracked as she sobbed, breaking down into more tears as louder, heavier footsteps burst into the room.

"Lothíriel? Lothíriel are you alright?" Gentle, firm fingers pulled her hands from her face, as her loose hair was pushed back, "Easy, easy. Deep breaths, my bluebird. You are safe. I am here, I am here."

Worried grey eyes stared into her own, as her eyes focused on the man before her. Long straight raven hair, pulled back from his slightly tired-looking her gaze to his beautifully embroidered doublet, Lothíriel felt herself slowly come back to reality. He placed his hands on her shoulders, grounding her with the slight pressure and firmness of his hold.

"Lothíriel repeat after me; "I am your father. You are safe in Dol Amroth. You have three older brothers."

"You are my father. I am safe in Dol Amroth. I have three older brothers."

"Good. Keep saying it over and over alright?"

"You are my father. I am safe in Dol Amroth-" Over and over she repeated the lines, slowly becoming more grounded in the present. She was 9 summers old and a daughter to the Prince of Dol Amroth. She wasn't a courtesan, with a Nobleman for a patron that had a disapproving murderous mother. She was safe in her home, guarded by Swan Knights. She wasn't hiding in a lavish, but small home.

' _I am not dying. I'm not pregnant. I am not dying. I'm alive. I'm_ _ **alive**_ _._ Taking deep breaths Lothíriel felt her shoulders relax as she clenched and unclenched her hands. Glancing towards the equally lavishly clothed boy behind her father - her older brother, she reminded herself. She noted he held the book she had been gripping tightly. It was an old, worn book, bought years ago as an addition to the family's private library. Elegantly decorated leather-bound its aging pages; it had been decorated so beautifully she had grown curious to read what tales it held.

' _How can he stand to touch that? It's so angry. A hate-filled book with death in its pages.'_ Shivering violently, she rubbed her neck with one hand and held her stomach with the other. Tears continued to drip from her face as she tried to calm down after experiencing such a brutal death. A warm hand wiped her tears from her cheek tenderly, bringing her attention back to her father. Lothíriel stared blankly at the man as he carefully pulled her into an embrace. He was so holding her so gently, as if she were made of glass and one wrong move would shatter her to pieces.

"You are alright, you are safe. I promise. I am here; I will protect you."

Resting her forehead against his steady chest, she felt herself relax. Her father was the bravest, strongest man she had ever met; so long as he was there, she knew he'd save her. Her father would keep those promises. Slipping into unconsciousness she wasn't afraid anymore as he continued to repeat his words over and over in her ear.

* * *

The first thing she noticed was the throbbing pain her head was in. The second thing she noticed was that she was back in her room. A low light shone from under the door as murmuring voices talked in urgent tones.

"-gift has never activated like this before!"

The whispers became more urgent as they began to speak a little louder, before quieting down after a loud noise echoed from the door. Breathing carefully, Lothíriel tried to call out to her family that she was awake. A harsh pain from her throat stopped any noise from spilling out and her eyes to water in pain.

"- her gift was just sensing emotions from objects?"

Flinching at the remark on her "gift", she weakly hid her face into her pillow. Her body gave little violent spasms in protest to the movement, causing the dull pain to spike for a few moments. Keeping her breath steady she managed to calm down enough to understand some of the conversation happening outside her room.

"-seems the stronger the emotion, the more likely she can witness what happened to the person."

Horrible images of the young woman who had been killed so viciously flashed before her eyes.

' _She had been beautiful,'_ Lothíriel thought, ' _Gorgeous, wavy dark hair, and piercing dark eyes. Her face looked like the Ambassador from Pelargir.'_ Her skin reminded her of the colour of sand at twilight, golden and dark in its splendour. Looking at her own sun-kissed hand, she wondered if she would get as dark as her if she stayed outside for the rest of the Summer. That woman had been so happy before she was murdered. Shivering as phantom sensations of a knife against her neck and belly coursed through her, Lothíriel bit back the whimper that wanted to escape her mouth.

"-can we protect her?" Was that Elphir or Erchirion? The pain made it hard for her to pick out which of her brothers was talking. The pain spiked again, forcing her to lay completely still and just focus on her breathing for a few moments until it died down again.

"-take care of her. She is in Minas Tirith."

"Are you sure? What about Uncle Denethor?"

The word broke Lothiriel from her reverie, jolting her back into awareness as her father's voice spoke up again. Trying to get past the low pulsing pain, Lothíriel carefully sat up, having to pause multiple times to breathe through it before managing to fully sit up. She must have made a noise, for the whispers grew quiet and her father stepped back into her room with Elphir standing behind him.

Looking at him tearfully from her bed, she gave a little cry as he made his way over and gave her a gentle hug.

"Oh bluebird, are you alright?"

Leaning into his embrace, Lothíriel buried her face into his neck. Shaking her head tearfully she whimpered again, her throat closing up in protest.

"Lothíriel, does your throat hurt?" Elphir sat by her side and began to rub her back gently, Once she nodded, he called for a servant to bring some tea and honey for her throat, along with something light to eat.

At the mention of food, her stomach began to grumble, causing her father to pull away from her and give her a small smile as she weakly reached out to drink her from her cup of tea.

"I'm so sorry you experienced that, my bluebird. You've been asleep for a week now."

Leaning over to kiss her forehead, her father sadly smiled down at weakly over her teacup, Lothíriel swallowed down her shock at how long she had slept before wondering if she was going to get any answers.

Her brother unbraided her hair and began to brush it out as her father took the time to gather his thoughts.

The warmth from both the tea and her family's actions spread through her body. Lothíriel loved her family _so_ much at this moment. Relaxing at the combined soothing sensations, she made herself comfortable as her father looked ready to talk.

"You know...you never met her, but your Aunt Finduilas also had a power that grew as she got older."

Lothíriel blinked in surprise, as her Aunt Finduilas was rarely mentioned at all. She was like a ghost; everyone was really careful when they mentioned her.

"You never told us this father." Lothíriel giggled into her tea at the offended look on her eldest brother's face. He clearly was upset he had never been told before.

"Your aunt has always been a ...difficult topic to talk about Elphir. She was much loved in our fiefdom and we were both heartbroken and happy with her marriage to your uncle." Her father looked so troubled as he spoke, his gaze flickering between her and her brother, wanting both of them to understand.

"Her death also came too soon after her marriage...I miss her very much." A moment of silence filled the space before he gave his head a little shake and reached out to tap her on the nose, "You remind me so much of her, my little bluebird."

Finishing her tea in a big gulp, Lothíriel ignored her brother's light tug of disapproval in regards to her manners. Clearing her throat, she raspily asked, "Do we have the same gift father?"

Her father's eyes seemed to sadden slightly as he reached out to take her teacup away from her.

"Not particularly...You have a lot of her face, my daughter. The Valar have blessed me with a child who looks like a beautiful combination of the two women I loved most in the world."

Lothíriel smiled as he placed her hand in his as he leaned forward, as if telling a secret to her.

"I see my sister in your eyes; her eyes. I see your mother in your smile, her darling smile." He smiled wistfully as he traced her face with his gaze. "Your Aunt Ivriniel claims she can hear a young FinduiIas when you sing. I particularly enjoy hearing you sing your mother's lullaby."

Smiling up at her father, Lothíriel was happy to hear his words. Her mother was a near-legendary figure of beauty and skill in her memories. Looking down slightly, she couldn't help but feel that pang of pain and longing when she thought of her, even in her happiness.

"If Lothíriel and Aunt Finduilas don't have a similar gift, then how did hers grow?"

' _Elphir always did hate not knowing things,'_ Lothíriel huffed a small laugh at his slightly annoyed look, ' _Of course he would try and steer the conversation back to information.'_

"...Ever since the days of Mithrellas' daughter, our womenfolk and a few of our menfolk have been blessed with various kinds of _gifts_. Your Aunt Finduilas had the gift to hear conversations carried by the wind." Elphir made a small noise of amazement as he exclaimed his interest in such a gift.

"How did it work?" Lothíriel started, as a bitter look crossed her father's face for a moment before it returned to a calm look. Her brother didn't seem to notice as he paused in his brushing, sensing that their father would finally, _finally_ talk about their aunt.

' _Father never really talks about her. Not even Aunt Iviriniel talks about her.'_ Lothíriel always wondered about that. Why wouldn't you talk about someone you loved?

Her father took his time, clearly thinking hard on how to start the story. It might have been only a few minutes but to her and her brother, it felt like hours before her father began to speak.

"As a child, whenever there was a windy day, your aunt would be able to hear all manner of conversations from across Dol Amroth." His eyes grew distant, voice becoming soft, as if he was mentally somewhere else, seeing someone else as he looked at her, "As she grew older, her range grew as well. This is how she caught the attention of your Uncle Denethor."

"Did he wish to have her use it 'For Gondor' too? Valar knows the grief he's given Cousin Faramir over the years for his lack of control over _his_ gift." Elphir lightly sneered under his breath. Cousin Faramir was always his favourite cousin, feeling more kinship with the more scholarly inclined cousin. Looking up at the bitter look on her eldest brother's face, a new idea bloomed in her mind

' _Does...does it bother Elphir that he's not as much of a warrior as the rest of our siblings?'_ While a skilled swordsman, his true gift lay in writing and managing others. Everyone said that he would be a great Prince of Dol Amroth.

"Your cousin is, unfortunately, the exception to many things." Lothíriel scoffed at that obvious understatement. The first man in their family to have a gift in who knows how many generations, and it's a gift he can't even control.

' _Though to be fair...control seems to be something really rare to have over our gifts.'_ Shuddering in remembrance of **that** book, Lothíriel tuned back into the story.

"No...my sister **heard** him one day. We were travelling through Lossarnach when she suddenly asked the carriage to stop for a break." Pausing, her father turned to pull out his locket. On one side was a minute of their family, on the other was his two sisters. "I had never seen her like that before. She had looked mesmerized as she closed her eyes and listened to what the wind was carrying to her. She looked like she was one moment away from bolting and following those words back to their origin."

"Aunt Finduilas could hear him from there?" Elphir sounded shocked at the news, pausing once more from his hair brushing. Lothíriel poked him in annoyance, he had just restarted! Why did he have to stop so quickly? Elphir looked at her pout and smirked, ruffling her hair into disarray and prompting her father to chuckle at their antics as he put his locket back under his doublet.

Lothíriel thought a smile suited him better than whatever that was on his face before. She would forgive her brother for messing up her hair like this.

"Her range was great Elphir, though in Dol Amroth she was safe from being overwhelmed. The sea's roar could be louder than the wind, giving her much respite on days when it grew to be too much." She could believe that its roar was more powerful than her aunt's gifs. The number of myths and superstitions surrounding the sea was as vast as all of Gondor. Only the elves knew what was fact and what was fiction.

"What did she hear father? Did she fall in love with his voice?" Lothíriel knew that love had very little to do in a marriage. She had met enough people by now to understand that her parents had been the exception, not the rule. Still, Aunt Finduilas must have fallen in love if she looked mesmerized...Right?

"I believe so bluebird. She never told me what she heard, but from then on she would offer to travel more outside of Dol Amroth. You must understand that your aunt disliked leaving our city. She loved this place more than anyone. I always believed that if she had been born a male, she would have been a greater Prince of Dol Amroth than myself." That was high praise! Her father was already getting the reputation of being a greater man than her grandfather, who had aided Steward Ecthelion II, their cousin's grandfather, to fight against the armies of Mordor.

"Looking back, it is obvious that she was searching for him. We didn't know who he was at first, but eventually, our family was called to Minas Tirith for the annual training session between the Swan Knights and the Knights of Minas Tirith. Your aunt, for the first time, offered to come along." Her stomach grumbled at the pause, causing her to flush in embarrassment as her father and brother laughed softly. Her father took pity on her and passed the large bowl of, now-cool, soup for her to eat as he continued his tale.

"That's when you found out?" Elphir asked, braiding Lothíriel's hair in a fishtail braid.

"Yes, though your aunt found him first. She had disappeared shortly after we had arrived. It was when I was sent to find her for dinner that I saw them talking in the gardens. Your uncle was smitten by the end of the day and they courted mostly through letters and the odd visit for the following year."

"How romantic!" Lothíriel sighed. She never would have guessed that her aunt and uncle had such a romantic relationship.

"Yes, yes, very sweet. Though I never expected our sour grape of an uncle to be so twitterpated in romance." Elphir huffed in amusement before tying the end of her braid with a ribbon. Giving her a one-armed hug, they both looked expectantly at their bemused father.

"Your uncle has changed a lot over the years. Not all for the better, but the stress of ruling Minas Tirith and being tasked with the burden of Steward with no King for support is no easy thing."

"What happened, next father?" She felt so much better in their presence. The phantom pains completely gone and her throat not irritated anymore. Drinking more of her soup, Lothíriel wondered what would have happened if they weren't there. She wasn't stupid; she knew her father was just distracting her with his story and brother was doing the same with her hair. She was blessed to have such a family.

"Your Aunt married your Uncle and they were blissfully happy for a time. Boromir was born right after the wedding. He too has many of your Aunt's features. He has the same eyes as you Lothíriel."

' _Is that why Uncle favours him so much? Because he looks like Aunt Finduilas?'_ Drinking the last bit of soup, she slowly started to eat the cold cuts of meat and cheese as her brother interrupted again.

"But...didn't our Aunt die soon after the birth of Cousin Faramir?"

"Five years after, to be precise, but yes. Minas Morgul had been getting more and more active during this time. The dark clouds had just recently become a more permanent feature over Mount Doom when Finduilas was married." Her father was getting tired. She could see the deepening of the lines on his face, as he grew closer to the end of this tale.

"Did Uncle Denethor have Aunt Finduilas listen for information?" Elphir interrupted again. Her brother could be such an annoyance sometimes. Her father gave them a look before forging on with the story.

"No. By the Valar, I do believe Denethor would have killed the first man who made such a remark in her presence. He loved her so much. **Too** much, if that's possible." Her father paused once more as he looked at them with a weird look. He seemed to be debating something before he shook his head sadly.

"...Why did our Aunt die, Father? If Uncle Denethor didn't have her use her gift then how..?" At this rate, she was going to name her brother, ' _Elphir, the Prince of Prying and Picking at Sore Topics_ '. Honestly.

"Her power had grown too strong by then. Just the slightest breeze was enough to give her so much information. At first, your aunt managed to get control over it, and ruled over the court with such skill that even to this day the lords and ladies make comments about it." Lothíriel wondered if those lords and ladies knew the truth about her family's lineage. In Dol Amroth, the nobility knew of course, but outside of it? Very few nobles or courts were given the privilege of knowing in detail about their gifts.

"Why didn't she just come back home?" Lothíriel would have come back. If she was feeling overwhelmed and her power was growing out of control, she would have definitely come back home.

"A reason your Aunt worked so well with your Uncle is that she was just as, if not _more_ , stubborn than him. She was the only one who could out-talk him and bend him to her will."

Lothíriel scoffed at the remark. Now, these just sounded like _excuses_. "Your cousins were so young during this time. It wasn't safe to travel with them and your aunt would never leave them alone. Especially since…"

That complicated look was back. Lothíriel shared a glance with her brother as they both looked worriedly as their father seemed to lose himself in his memories for a moment.

"Yes?" Elphir prompted.

"No. Nothing...Regardless my sister was stubborn, and at the time we had been fooled into thinking she had mastered her gift enough to control her range; that she would be safe when using them; that she would turn to us for support if she needed it." It seemed that no matter how many years passed since her Aunts death, her father did not seem to be as over it as she had believed.

' _How awful that must have been for him,'_ Lothíriel thought, ' _To watch someone you love not turn to you for support.'_

"What happened, next father?" Lothíriel whispered, her father felt very vulnerable to her right then.

"We didn't know at the time, but your aunt had been using her gift to obtain information and had been writing it down for your uncle. I was never allowed to read the full contents of those books, but what I did was enough for myself to understand her fear for her family. She had managed to stop countless assassination attempts on her children and her husband".

' _Frustration,'_ Lothíriel thought, ' _and pride. Why didn't she reach out to our family for help?'_

"Your aunt…She found a wind current that blew from the heart of Mount Doom. It would be this accomplishment that eventually killed your Aunt." The silence grew once more as both Lothíriel and her brother tried to understand that sentence.

"I thought Aunt Finduilas had the Sea-Sickness? That she Faded away for the sea?" Lothíriel asked, now feeling a little...off that it was her Aunt's own powers that led to her death.

"Your cousins were so young back then, and _yes_ , your Aunt did _long_ to have the protection of the sea once more. But that wasn't what eventually killed her…" Lothíriel had never imagined that silences could have _teeth_. That they could _swallow_ words so quickly and threaten the rest leftover so thoroughly.

"...No, it was more... That is to say... The _horrors_ of that mountain followed her wherever she went, feeding into her dreams and overwhelming her entirely till she could barely sleep. She dared not risk the chance for dreaming." Shuddering against her brother, Lothíriel tried to hide her unrest at this explanation. Shifting in her bed, she stuffed her mouth with bread, hoping to ignore her heart's suddenly wild beating.

"...How did our aunt die, Father?" Elphir whispered. For once he didn't sound so pushy.

" _Slowly_...My sister _died slowly. Her_ body grew weak from lack of sleeping and eating. With such a delicate state of health, she fell ill and eventually of our healers could help her by that point. Her body wasn't strong enough to fight it off, and nothing she ate stayed down."

His eyes were misty-eyed as he looked down at his hands. This story wasn't fun anymore. Lothíriel wasn't sure if she wanted to hear the ending.

"She did not make much sense by the end. She cried for the sea before she died, probably wishing to be protected once more...It deeply hurt your Uncle, the fact that he couldn't protect her." He hadn't said it aloud, but Lothíriel knew he had included himself in those that had been hurt by her last words.

"I'm sorry father. She sounds like an amazing person." Lothíriel murmured, her voice seeming to snap her father back to the present.

"She _was_ , my bluebird. She would have loved you." Turning to look at the family portrait in Lothíriel's room, he smiled gently before turning back to her and Elphir, "All of you."

Clearing his throat, her father stood up seeming to need the distance. "Speaking of Minas Tirith, I would like you to know that we are travelling to Minas Tirith this month."

" _We_ , father?"Lothíriel had never been included on their trips before. Everyone claimed she was too little to travel, then her mother died and there just never seemed to be a time for her to see the White City.

"Yes, Amrothos and Erchirion, along with yourself will be travelling. Elphir will be practicing to rule in my stead. Erchirion is to join your cousin for a patrol and Amrothos is to be squire to one of our Swan Knights. He's old enough now and Lord Alagastor is a man I know will take care and teach your brother well."

"And I, father? What will _I_ be doing?" Lothíriel was happy for Amrothos. Really, she was. But if she was stuck in the nursery during this whole trip then she would just have to rebel. It was her first time out of Dol Amroth! She wanted her _adventure_.

"...Your Aunt Ivriniel has asked for you to be her companion for a while. She wishes to visit a distant relative of ours in Lossarnach and has thought that perhaps you might like the adventure."

Clapping her hands in glee, Lothíriel ignored Elphir's reprimand on her behaviour as she bounced about in her seat.

"Oh, that sounds wonderful! Thank you so much!" Beaming from ear to ear, she couldn't wait to get going! Oh, the wondrous things she would see! The people she would meet!

"Don't sound too happy now, for I will miss you terribly. Your aunt is to take you shortly after we arrive in Minas Tirith, so make sure to pack enough warm clothes for the stay." Minas Tirith was colder than Dol Amroth throughout the year, and Lossarnach was wetter by far. She would have to pack wisely to make sure no stay was uncomfortable.

"Yes sir." Clapping her hands again, Lothíriel felt rejuvenated as she planned on everything she would take and do.

Rough fingers pushed back traitorous strands of hair away from her face, as her father laughed at her enthusiasm.

"Calm yourself, my bluebird. You must be tired after all of this excitement. I'll see you on the morrow." Smiling up at the man, Lothíriel hugged his waist, before doing the same to her now standing brother.

"Good night Father. Good night Elphir." Snuggling under her covers, she curled into her sheets as the door gently closed.

Her father's voice lingered as he left her room. "Good night Lothíriel."

* * *

Moonlight streamed into her window, gently pulling her back from the darkness as she blinked her sight back into focus. Her body was in agony, every little movement was painful; even breathing was a trial. The room was pitch black, with no candle nor fireplace to warm the space. Thankfully her sheets were warm and heavy, or she would be far colder than she currently felt.

Straining to adjust to the darkness, Lothíriel found herself staring at the white ceiling before her, wondering how she had ended up in her room. Turning her head carefully to the side, she froze at the sensation of her hands tied down with a rope to the bed. Struggling to remain calm, she noticed her ankles were in a similar predicament. Her entire body was tied down and caged to her bed, limiting her ability to move and wrench her way out. Feeling her breath accelerate in panic, images upon images of horrible acts and atrocities came rushing back. Lothíriel sobbed, her voice too wrecked to make a noise as she began to silently scream as she recalled the horror of Minas Morgul and all that blade had revealed to her.

By the time the maid had come and reported to her Uncle that she was awake, Lothíriel had stopped silently screaming. Instead, she was staring emotionlessly at the ceiling, numb to the world as she blocked reality from her mind. A teardrop fell from her eyes as she turned her gaze back to her room. Her uncle would arrive soon to ask what she had seen...And Lothiriel would never be free. Her father was such a liar. He hadn't kept her safe at all.

' _Why father? Why did you leave me to my Uncle? Why did you abandon me to this fate?'_ He was never around when he was in the city, always preferring to stay at the barracks or with his men on another level. She wished she knew what she had done to make him hate her so. Covering her eyes with her arms, Lothíriel prayed for her cousin Boromir to return. Or for Faramir to come to visit.

She didn't want to be alone. She was so tired of being alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave your thoughts, comments, questions or concerns below! ☺


	3. Chapter 2: To Whims and Folly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thank you so much for everyone who has reviewed, favourite and followed this fic! Your support is an inspiration! Also please give a big thanks to my beta Hybris, who has been just fabulous as I tried to get this chapter out. Shoutout to my friend Roobi for historical clothing description help!

Chapter 2: To Whims and Folly

* * *

The days blurred by as her Uncle deemed her unfit to rejoin the rest of society, demanding that she take a break. The information she had learned from the blade must have been valuable enough to have earned her this break, as he seemed to get excited at her words. His gruff comments that she was no use to him, nor Gondor, by being so worked up with her own hysteria, aside.

Like always, her father didn't visit her, even though she had seen him pass by the house frequently. Placing her hand to heart, Lothíriel let out a long breath, feeling her shoulders and the warmth of the room fade from her body. Silence seems to echo as she took in the grey, almost bare-looking room. The only signs of use were a lyre laying by her trunk, with a few embroidery supplies on the small table close by. Her heart twinged as Lothíriel gently trailed her gloved fingers over the headboard, letting her mind wander for a bit longer before pulling herself back in.

' _You'd never guess this was my room for years. All I have to speak of my existence is these few things.'_

Turning back to her embroidery set laying on the table, Lothíriel gripped her hands in determination as she tried to work on decorating a pair of new gloves. Taking off her everyday ones, she extended a trembling hand towards the needle. She found herself, once again, just stopping a breath before the item. Lothíriel grit her teeth in frustration, as she couldn't make herself touch the needle and thread; no matter how benign they looked, she knew what was waiting if she touched them.

' _This clearly isn't working,'_ She thought with a sigh, giving up entirely and putting her gloves back on, turning to her window, her eyes traced the dirty edges of the white columns. The White City seemed to look more like a dove gray in the faint sunlight, the cracks on the rectangular buildings noticeable to the naked eye. The stains of black soot and dirt blotched many of the mosaics, while whole sections of the beautiful artwork were destroyed completely in the lower levels. The most disturbing thing of all was the lack of sounds of life. It was nearly midday, and no other noise could be heard but that of the horses and carriages on the street. No children laughing or playing, no one talking or singing. There was barely anyone on the streets, making the noises jarring and stark against that damned silence.

A knock on her door broke her thoughts, as a maid came in to announce the arrival of her Aunt Ivriniel. Gathering a deep breath for composure, she followed the young woman to the sitting room, where her aunt already sat, impatiently waiting and making herself comfortable. She was ordering the servants about so that everything was just right for her visit, clearly having no shame about doing so in another person's home.

"Aunt Ivriniel." She curtseyed politely, ignoring the slight pain in her arms and legs as she held the position before rising. It seemed she hadn't recovered as completely as she thought from touching that cursed blade.

"Lothíriel. You look terrible. Have you been getting fatter?" Ignoring the remark, Lothíriel gave a small smile before sitting closer to her infamous aunt. She was the first woman in their family who never used her gift in any way, instead, she suppressed it till no one remembers what her gift was.

 _'I wish I could also…'_ Smiling wider, Lothíriel discreetly nodded at a maid to leave the tea set there. "It's wonderful to see you too." Keeping her tone light and even, Lothíriel focused on her controlled breaths. She couldn't afford to show weaknesses in front of her aunt.

' _Like she says; Noticeable reactions are easy pickings for the vultures and snakes of the Court. If I can't handle my aunt, how can I hope to survive the other nobles?'_ Lothíriel already had too many **noticeable** differences to the other women in Minas Tirith. No sense in offering anymore.

"What were you thinking, pinning your hair back so tightly? Also, why is your neckline so high? You look like a frumpy old maid from the last age." She said tartly. Her Aunt was widely known for never conforming to Minas Tirith standards of fashion, too proud of her Amroth heritage; no matter that her age should have had her see the wisdom in not ruffling feathers at first sight.

Her hair was beautifully arranged in a half-updo, with a pearl hair net to hold it back from her face, and her dress was gorgeously dyed in deep blues and purples; all of which were imported from Dol Amroth, no doubt. The neckline of her gown was cut much lower than Lothíriel's, the tightly-laced deep purple bodice valiantly supporting her breasts. A fine, delicately embroidered, nearly transparent partlet worn over it all drew the gaze to her age-spotted décolletage.

"Aunt...It is not appropriate for young women of marriageable age to let their hair down. Also, Uncle insists that I cause too much trouble when I wear any of the ' _wilder'_ fashions. He gave me a sermon after the last time I followed your advice and wore a 'fashionable' style of dress." The look of rage and disgust on his face the one time she dared to be fashionable at Court…For one heart-stopping moment, Lothíriel actually believed he would raise his hand against her.

"Plus, Seamstress Alagiel has been instructed to only follow his orders ever since _that_ little endeavour," Lothíriel said as she sat down to pour some tea, noting her aunt shuffling to the adjustment had her angling her body as if she meant to face her better when in reality she created more distance between them. Continuing as if she had never paused, Lothíriel tried to hide her exhaustion at the blatant aversion to even the smallest chance of contact.

Some frustration escaped her control as she tersely snipped; "You were there when he scolded me for hours. Have you been having problems with your memory lately?"

"Don't be cheeky with me, niece. You are a _Princess of Dol Amroth_ , be proud of your heritage! What does that old, grouchy, sour grape of a man know about women's fashion?" Her Aunt waved a biscuit about as she used it to emphasize her point before taking a bite of it.

"Our people are known for the richness the ports give us. So what if you currently live in this _blasted_ mausoleum of a city? It's not as if you could _ever_ fit in when your skin is more than three times darker than any of the people living here." Lothíriel was keenly aware of the distance growing between them as every wave of her Aunt's arms had her inching away from her. Even though her Aunt was encouraging her, she still stayed out of reaching distance, no matter how close Lothíriel sat by her.

"You make it sound like my mother was from _Harad_. Last I checked, _Pelargir_ was still a part of Gondor." Another sore point hit mercilessly, how like Ivriniel. Hiding a wince, Lothíriel cast her eyes down to her cup, as her Aunt glared at her for the remark.

"Your mother was dusky-skinned and so are you. Facts are facts." Twitching at the flat tone in her voice, Lothíriel got the message. She had been too pointed in her reply; she had shown weakness again.

"Play to your strengths. Deep colours would look gorgeous on you, not these shades and pathetic excuses for colours that have somehow become a trend. It will be a short one if I have anything to say about it." Her dry tone caught Lothíriel's attention as she looked at the wryly smirk her aunt gave a pale-faced looking maid in the corner.

"Aunt Ivriniel, please don't bother my staff." The light tap of her teacup against the saucer echoed as Lothíriel stared at her aunt straight in the eyes. Silence reigned for a few minutes, though it felt like hours to her before it was broken by the maid escaping the room to fetch more tea.

"They have no backbone. You need new ones. And more than the pathetic excuse of a group you dare to call a staff." Keeping her face devoid of emotion, Lothíriel nodded to her aunt's little flick of her cup. She accepted her not-apology, as she backed down from the topic. For now.

' _Though, Uncle Denethor is going to rage at the thought of wasting more money on a frivolous expense should Aunt Ivriniel bother him with such things.'_ Sighing internally Lothíriel wondered if she would ever hear the end of their complaints about each other.

"Now, back to the matter of your wardrobe... I will have my personal seamstress have your new dresses made up immediately. You'll have to visit me of course, and come to me before an event so the Steward won't have your pretty dresses destroyed." A smug smile crossed Aunt Ivriniel's face, as she seemed to relish the thought of getting one over Lothíriel's uncle.

"Aunt-" Her hand waved about in Lothíriel's direction as she was interrupted and dismissed in equal measure.

"Now don't thank me, my dear. Valar knows someone has to make sure you know how to dress properly. What you're wearing may be suitable for _his_ court right now, but just you wait!" She seemed to get fired up as she began to list the different fabrics she would buy and the designs she would insist on being tailored for Lothíriel.

"Please, I-" Once more Lothíriel was dismissed as the maid returned with a new teapot full of fresh tea. Placing it by Lothíriel's side, the young woman gave her a pitying look as she stepped away and back to her corner to wait for further instruction.

"Enough about the fashions, we can fix that later. Let's talk about your weight." Lothíriel couldn't help flinching again as Aunt Ivriniel looked her over, scrunching her eyes as she critically assessed her.

" _Clearly_ he's trying to plump you up enough to bear your future husband's sons in a healthy manner, which for once he isn't wrong about. Honestly, what are these women thinking? Starving themselves into sticks, and for what? Their health won't thank them, and neither will their starving baby!" Lothíriel winced again as she shied away from her aunt's waving hands; clearly this had been irritating her for a while. Her tone even rose a few octaves as she aggressively continued to verbally destroy the habits of 'lesser women', and somehow managed to find the time to target Lothíriel's weight during the lengthy rant.

"Aunt Ivriniel-"

"More _walking_ is what you need. I myself am an avid walker. I have _never_ been considered too plump in my life and am the envy of all the women at my age." Hiding a huff at the understatement of such a remark, Lothíriel silently remarked that not many women could be 71 summers and yet still look like they were in their late 50s.

"You will walk every morning, I will make sure to get that old, sour grape to not interfere this time, so don't think you can get out of it my dear. We will have you looking less like a stuffed roll in no time. Mark my words!" Watching her aunt gleefully scheme about ambushing her uncle later that day, Lothíriel wondered if their relationship had always been this bad or if it was because of Lothíriel's presence that it seemed worse.

"You're _exaggerating,_ I'm not-"

"I suppose there are some men that like a thicker girl. You have been blest with nice breasts at least. Your legs aren't too bad either, though you are a bit taller than usual for women...We'll have to make sure you wear less heeled shoes. Can't be towering over the men. Remember there is nothing more fragile than a man's ego." Nodding at the dark look on her aunt's face, Lothíriel prayed that this conversation would just end.

"Aunt Ivriniel, _please_ , I am very happy with my weight and my height. Elphir says I look a lot like mother and she-"

"He's absolutely right." Cut off once more, Lothíriel bit her tongue as her aunt began to critic her mother, "Bless your mother's soul, she was a darling woman who turned my brother's head faster than a capsizing ship. She was just a little too plump for my liking... Even though she was an appropriate height for a woman, she had too many curves, not to mention the thick shoulders that you, _unfortunately_ , have inherited." Staring at her aunt's arched eyebrow as she gestured to all of Lothíriel, Lady Ivriniel continued to talk on as if she hadn't been trying to provoke her.

"At least she knew how to make it _look_ glamorous...Hmmm. I think I've figured it out."

Swallowing harshly, Lothíriel prayed for patience, "Yes Aunt?"

"Don't act so obtuse niece, it's not attractive. I've figured out your problem! ...It's the cut of the neckline on that dress. _Clearly_ that's what it is. It diminishes your beauty and makes you look worse than you actually are!"

Reaching the end of her patience, Lothíriel poured herself another cup of tea as she took a moment to regain control of this spiralling situation.

"Aunt Ivriniel, what is this visit really about?"

"I am insulted that you think I wouldn't visit because I care for my niece." The mocking smile on her face was a stark contrast to her supposedly kind words.

"Your time is more valuable than for you to visit just for that reason...Is this because Boromir was sent away on a quest?" Not even a fortnight had passed and she ached at the thought of him so far away. His and Faramir's visits had kept her sane, providing the comfort and love she had lost from her immediate family. Boromir had left on campaigns throughout the years, but never had Lothíriel felt such dread at seeing him ride off.

"Partially, though the only person who could have changed your Uncle's mind was my sister; and unfortunately she's dead." Her aunt's cold tone snapped Lothíriel out of her reverie as the mood seemed to change.

"Aunt?" Lothíriel felt herself start to tense as her aunt dismissed all of the servants from the room. Pulling out a wrapped package from her beautifully embroidered pocket-bag, Lothíriel flinched violently at seeing the wrapped item be placed on the small table.

"Aunt?" Lady Ivriniel glared at her as Lothíriel's voice cracked slightly in repressed fear.

Carefully unwrapping it, Lothíriel saw that it was a small, worn down and cracking, wooden box, no bigger than her palm, with rusted metal hinges holding it together. Her Aunt actually dared to get closer to her, to whisper something into Lothíriel's ear, as she gestured towards the thing. The last time her aunt had acted like this was when…

' _ **No**_ _Lothíriel_ _ **don't**_ _think about it. It's in the past.'_

Feeling her breath against her ear as she spoke in a raspy tone, Lothíriel vaguely noted her aunt repeat her hand gesture to the box in an annoyed manner. Shaking her head in denial of what was being asked of her, Lothíriel shrank into her seat as her aunt grew vicious in her whispered critics of such cowardly behaviour. Blinking back the tears; another weakness would win her another long lecture of her many failings no doubt, she shakily began taking off her gloves. She could feel her arms ache painfully as she flexed her hands.

' _I can do this. It's won't be as bad. After all, what is another horror? Just one more to the collection.'_ Breathing deeply, Lothíriel tried to center herself as she mentally rallied herself onwards, ' _Come on Lothíriel all you have to do is...'_

Reaching out with her trembling fingers, she flinched as they touched the aged, cracked wood. Closing her eyes, Lothíriel felt herself try to block the grasping visions with another, personal memory. Shaking her head as she tried to get the job done and even as the emotions and memories of the box threatened to rise up and engulf her, Lothíriel couldn't help but recall her brother at this moment. Had it really been only 4 summers since she last saw him? Losing control of her focus, Lothíriel lost herself to the past as she vaguely heard her aunt cry out in alarm.

' _Brother…'_

* * *

"Sculking in the corner Lothíriel? What would our dear aunt say if she saw such atrocious posture?" Flinching at being caught avoiding their aunt's tea party that was happening in the other room, Lothíriel sighed in relief when she saw who it was.

"Amrothos!" She exclaimed as he picked her up into a bear hug. Melting into his embrace, Lothíriel beamed as he kissed her hair and held her close. Sometimes she felt like she lived for his visits. Besides Amrothos, she didn't see her other brothers anymore.

' _Boromir and Faramir are more involved in my life than my own family.'_ She couldn't help but silently complain, as she buried her face into his embrace.

"I've missed you, little sister. Did you get shorter?" His dark grey eyes seemed to twinkle in laughter as she quickly pulled away from his embrace with an insulted look on her face.

"Still as lacking in charm as ever I see. How has squiring under Lord Alagastor been?" she teased back, playfully pulling on his shoulder-length, uncontrollably curly hair in warning.

"He is definitely one of the most skilled men under father's command. I can see why he is so widely respected." He monotoned, trying to look as serious and respectful as possible. Grinning at his automatic response, she grabbed his hand and began leading him to a small sitting room nearby.

"He never lets you roam too far from his sight huh?" She laughed at the loud groan her remark garnered. Amrothos was the closest to her age and the one who could always make her laugh, no matter what. For that alone, he had her unconditional love.

"Not even for an instant... Except for this summer." He smiled, playfully pulling her into an impromptu dance about the room before twirling her into her seat by the fireplace.

"Amrothos! What on earth are you talking about?" Giggling into her hands, she beamed as her brother leaned closer to her on the sofa, mischievous glint in his eyes as he explained his plans for the upcoming summer.

"The Venerable Lady Rhaweth is hosting Lord Alagastor. Even though I am his squire, Father still wishes me to know the basics of lording." Smugly preening at the indirect praise from their father, he missed her flinch as she began to play with her gloves.

' _Father…'_ Swallowing down her darkening emotions, Lothíriel smiled as she brought his attention back from whatever fantasies and schemes he was concocting.

"And how does the infamous Lady Rhaweth fit in?" The woman was one of the most desired and exclusive hostesses in Minas Tirith. Lothíriel had quickly learned who controlled and influenced whom in the White City's Court.

"Her husband and two older sons are in Osgiliath. As lord to a minor territory, Lord Alagastor thought - with the lord's permission of course - that it would be the perfect place for me to practice under Lady Rhaweth's watchful eye while he joins Cousin Boromir's group." Biting her lip at the mention of their cousin, Lothíriel prayed that he would come back in a better mood than he left. The last row he had with her uncle had been... Upsetting.

"I'm surprised he'd let you go unsupervised." She mused, playfully punching him the arm at his arrogantly smug look.

"Apparently Lady Rhaweth is to be my handler this summer. She doesn't find fault in our ' _dusky'_ skin nor my lack of ' _lordly prowess'_. I'm to remain there for a few months before rejoining Lord Alagastor in Dol Amroth." Pausing at the remark, Lothíriel gently grasped his hand comfortingly, as he looked down at their intertwined fingers. His were a sharp contrast against her white glove. It felt like the world held their breath as they sat there quietly for a few moments.

"How long are you in Minas Tirith for?" she murmured, unwilling to speak any louder.

"Just for a fortnight. Lady Rhaweth has to tie up some loose ends before we make our way to her husband's territory…" Trailing off absentmindedly, Lothíriel wondered if something had happened recently. It wouldn't be the first time someone had made a dismissive remark towards herself and her brothers.

She must have shown her worry on her face because the next moment her brother was grinning goofily as he dramatically flopped over the arm of the sofa.

"I am going to be so _bored_ Lothíriel. Stuck with an ageing old crone all summer, no fun nor tavern nearby at all."

Rolling her eyes at his antics, she slowly pulled away from his hand as she snorted dismissively at his childish actions, "Poor brother. Stuck being an adult for a few weeks. Whatever will become of you?"

"You are too cruel sister." he mocked, peeking at her from the corner of his eyes.

"Honestly, you complain too much. Lady Rhaweth doesn't even look that old." While not being blessed with the same longevity as her family, she certainly didn't look anywhere close to her actual age.

"She's more than twice my age Lothíriel. She's _old_." He whined, childishly sighing as if it were some great tragedy.

"And yet, she still has many admirers at court." Annoyed by his dismissive wave, Lothíriel couldn't help but snark at him, "Some even _your_ age Amrothos."

Cocking his head in her direction, Lothíriel smirked as she saw him try and deny any interest as he made himself more comfortable on the sofa, "Her husband must _love_ that."

Comments like that just highlighted how long it had been since her brother had been to Court. Feeling strangely proud that _she_ could teach _him_ something, Lothíriel cleared her throat as she grinned at his long-suffering face.

"Flirtations are all well and good if done appropriately, and with a husband's permission. So long as they remain just words, and have a chaperone, then she is doing very little wrong." Of course, all you need is one single-minded, malicious trollop to stir up a scandal regardless of how proper you were...

"Oho? I thought a lady only had her reputation, and that one wrong move would ruin her future forever."

"Yes, but there are ways to .. bend things a little." Seeing his skeptical look, Lothíriel made herself more comfortable as she tried to explain the complexities of the court and what women could get away with.

"For example, Lady Rhaweth is the wife of a lord with very little to recommend himself in regards to lineage but has accumulated a lot of political and economic power in trade here in Minas Tirith. Many a man will try to get her husband's secrets from her; but if she's clever enough, she can get theirs instead." Espionage of any sort always caught Amrothos attention, Lothíriel hid a smile as her brother tried to hide his interest at her remarks.

"Since her husband is aware of it, and it is a somewhat common practice to see the wives maneuver other women and their husbands with wordplay - yes Amrothos, flirtatious wordplay too - then some leeway is permitted and the woman isn't shamed." She concluded, happy to see him break his act and look at her with interest.

"Huh...So, her reputation won't be ruined for hosting me, a single, ' _exotic'_ looking Prince of Dol Amroth, without Lord Alagastor?" The mocking tone set her teeth on edge as he made to dismiss all of her words as flightful wishings of a young woman.

"Like you said, ' _she is more than twice your age_ '; and fortunately for you Amrothos, you have very little to offer her and her family as the third son." Lothíriel wondered if she had said too much, as she thought she had heard a faint creaking noise. As if her brother had gripped the arm of the sofa too tightly. Pausing for a second, she wondered if she had just imagined that as Amrothos turned to smile teasingly at her.

"That too will protect her from the Court thinking something nefarious is happening." she weakly finished, feeling off centred at the look of his smile.

Huffing a disbelieving laugh, Amrothos got up and pulled Lothíriel into another spontaneous dance as he made snide remarks on the whole affair.

"Who would want to dishonour themselves with a decrepit, _old_ woman when there are plenty of gorgeous _young_ women to... _dance_ with." Dipping her low, Lothíriel couldn't help but laugh at his antics, dismissing his weird behaviour as a trick of nerves.

"Clearly you have _never_ met her before. But, you're in luck. Uncle is hosting a small dinner this evening to talk politics with the men, so they are bringing their wives to help ' _educate'_ me." Rolling her eyes at his loud guffaws, Lothíriel thought perhaps dinner would be bearable if her brother was with her.

"My poor little sister, having to put up with gossip. Truly you are living in unbearable circumstances." He teased, lifting her up before twirling her into a dip again.

"I don't want to hear that from the one who was complaining that he'd have to be a responsible adult for a few months!" She giggled, enjoying this moment of levity.

"So cruel. How will you ever get a husband with such a blunt way of speaking?" Lothíriel suppressed a flinch at the remark, baring her teeth in a smug grin as he continued to whine at the injustice of his summer plans being foiled by the elderly. Stomping on his toes at one too rude remark, her brother laughed as he stepped away from her righteous fury.

"Is she that wrinkly that you need to defend her? Or does she try to dress 'fashionably' like Aunt Ivriniel? Come on Lothíriel, give me some details. I need to emotionally prepare myself if I have to see wrinkly cleavage all summer." Sighing at his way of thinking, Lothíriel prayed that he wouldn't make the mistake to repeat any of this at tonight's dinner.

"You are impossible." His roguish smile at her exasperation just filled her with more dread that he would do something stupid.

"Is that any way to treat a beloved older brother?" he batted his eyelashes playfully at her unamused face.

"Yes." She deadpanned.

In the end, Lothíriel had the last laugh as she hid her smirk behind her teacup. Lady Rhaweth was an elegant older woman, whose mature looks and keen intelligence made her a magnetic sort of person. Her sparkling eyes seemed to laugh at a hidden joke as she teased and played word games with both the Lords and the Ladies alike.

Even though she had a more modest neckline compared to her aunt's daring lower cut, Lady Rhaweth's dress drew attention to the elegance of her figure. Her bodice was a deep, rich burgundy colour that brought to mind the finest wines, a dark enough colour to satisfy her uncle. The sleeves, however, were the true highlight of the dress. They were made with rich silk, embroidered with a golden thread that shimmered softly in the candlelight, and slashed at the shoulder and elbow to allow her soft white chemise to peek through. As she gestured, they highlighted the grace and elegance of her movements, keeping her audience captive as she spoke.

' _Lady Rhaweth is certainly very mesmerizing to watch when she speaks.'_ Lothíriel thought as she poured more tea into her aunt's cup, ' _Even Uncle is paying close attention.'_

Lothíriel would regret being distracted as one of the wives grew too animated in her discussion with her aunt and smacked Lothíriel's teacup across the table, shattering against the floor.

* * *

"Lothíriel!"

Jolting back to awareness, Lothíriel gasped as she gripped the edges of the box. Feelings of angry desperation for no one to find it - screams echoing in her ears as a man begged for his children's lives to be spared and a woman laughing in loudly, hiding fear of discovery, under gleaming white teeth - froze her body over with a wretched sense of dread. Muttering a name under her breath Lothíriel pried her fingers from the wood, wincing at the phantom sensation of splinters under her skin. Her stomach rebelled as she bit her lips in an attempt to keep it all down.

"Are you well? Speak up girl!" barked Aunt Ivriniel; she had moved to another chair, when exactly, Lothíriel couldn't recall.

"I-I'm fine." Lothíriel took a fortifying sip from her tea, immediately regretting it as her stomach heaved again in protest.

"Good. Drink some more tea. Clearly you aren't eating properly. I'll make sure to look over your menus before I go, I-"

Cutting her off before her aunt could work herself up into another pointless rant, Lothíriel heard herself ask, "Aunt where did you get this box?"

Her aunt's stoney features stared her down, as she took another sip of her tea.

"...A princess does not interrupt their elders. It's uncouth and undisciplined. Nor does she ask stupid questions."

"...Was it empty when you found it?" Lothíriel shuddered as she tried to shake off the feeling of ants and other wiggling things from her hands.

"Of course it was empty when I found it! Learn to ask better questions!" Lothíriel repressed a sigh as she wondered what a normal family discussion between an aunt and niece was like.

' _Surely it's not as complicated as this.'_

"Aunt...Where did you find something from Queen Berúthiel? She was stricken from the Book of Kings, and it is said that everything was sent back when she was cast out." At least, that's what she had heard from her tutor. For a woman so hated that history was supposed to forget her, she still seemed to live on in the hearts of many historians.

"Many things are _said,_ child. I thought you would be smart enough to know they are not all true." And she was back to the insults. Lothíriel wondered if she continued to push, would her aunt finally give her a straight answer?

"Then let me rephrase my question: Did you find it locked and with something inside? And then at a later point in time find that it was empty and open by someone not you?" Her arms still ached, and the disgusting sensations threatened to have her stomach push back up her tea and biscuits.

"Hmph. I should have never left it out of my sight, but your uncle insisted _he_ could guard it better. Clearly he failed." Tuning out her aunt's mutterings, Lothíriel took a few deep breaths before trying again.

"Aunt Ivriniel…"

"What was inside the box Lothíriel?" Her aunt's voice was sharp and serious, as she stared down Lothíriel's pale face.

"...Something secret. A _lie_. Or perhaps more of a _wish_." Her gift wasn't a science that worked the same way with every object. Sometimes, when they are around enough certain types of people, objects gain an intent of their own.

' _Makes it difficult to read it well when that happens.'_ Lothíriel silently cursed as her aunt grew dismissive and bored with her.

"Vague and useless."

"The person who took it felt no strong emotion. No fear, nor rage, nor grief. If they did, it has been overshadowed by Queen Berúthiel's last feelings about it." That was all Lothíriel could confidently say with no fear of inaccuracy.

"Typical. That woman is a thorn to Gondor's side both in life and death. I'm shocked her damn cats haven't haunted us at this point."

A tense silence filled the room, as Lothíriel watched her wrap the box away. Finally feeling like she could breathe easier now that the box was gone, Lothíriel wondered if she should try and push her luck any further.

' _Oh for pity's sake.'_ She thought, disgusted by her own lack of spine in this matter. Clearing her throat, she waited for her Aunt's eyes to meet hers before trying to speak about it.

"...I heard the news." A pregnant pause filled the space before her aunt waved her off dismissively.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Lady Luinwen is getting married again." Lothíriel didn't understand what had happened between them. They used to be so close, and Lady Luinwen had always been so kind to Lothíriel.

"A foolish thing for an old woman like her." Her aunt sneered, putting away her teacup and preparing to leave.

"It is for the economic stability of her family and children. Surely that isn't so foolish?" Lothíriel admired the strength it took to essentially sell yourself for the sake of your family and future. She didn't know if she could be as strong.

"She is giving up her last years to be tied to a man who neither respects nor loves her." Lady Ivriniel's voice seemed to catch before hiding the moment with a scoff of disgust.

"I know you two were the best of friends-" Lothíriel tried again, only to be cut off as she clearly pushed her aunt too far.

"You do not know what we were to each other! You have _no_ idea." Pointing threateningly in Lothíriel's face, Aunt Ivriniel growled out the rest of her impassioned speech, "I am warning you right now that I will not look kindly upon those who meddle in my affairs. Now, let's focus on the continued survival of Gondor rather than an old woman's past friendships, hmm? Good. I will see you on the morrow."

Staring quietly as her aunt began to storm out the room, Lothíriel managed to reply back, "...Yes, Aunt Ivriniel."

"And Lothíriel?" Her aunt called out from the door, standing under the arch, and refusing to look back at her.

"Yes?"

"Wear something that doesn't make you look like a crow. It's a sad day when a young woman is less beautiful than an old woman. Even if it _is_ myself."

The sound of the door slamming shut echoed in the empty room as Lothíriel sat alone in silence.

* * *

End of Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Don't know why chapter 2's comments are here. AO3 what are you doing? Sorry about the mixup folks. Hope you Enjoyed it regardless.
> 
> [ps. If anyone knows how to fix it please let me know]


	4. Chapter 3: Compassion and Predation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I promise I didn't abandon this fic. In fact, I have been writing and re-writing this chapter for months. I originally was going to add a bit more but felt the last scene was a good place to stop. Thank you again to my Beta Hybris. Who puts up with my fandom hopping ways. I don't own the song "The Nightingale" by Deborah Henson-Conant but it is a gorgeous piece.

Chapter 3: Compassion and Predation

* * *

The days were growing colder as summer drew to a close. Boromir had been gone for two months now, with only Faramir and her uncle knowing the truth; he was in a precarious situation. The palantír had revealed that Boromir had lost his horse early in the journey - and was making the rest of his way on foot - thus driving her uncle into a permanent foul mood that made his usual attitude look sweet in comparison. Poor Faramir had also had a prophetic dream that Boromir would only make it just in time for the meeting, though the fact that the contents of the meeting were enshrouded in a mist, hidden from sight, had earned him the lash of his father's tongue.

Wrapping the fur coat over her shoulders, Lothíriel made a mental note to write to Faramir. Her uncle had been especially cruel lately, sending letters filled only with criticism as things grew more unstable in East Osgiliath. Fear of losing the East half of the city and breaking the last remaining bridge to the Western side ran rampant among the Lords and, as always, Faramir was a convenient target for her uncle to vent his frustrations on.

' _Knowing Uncle Denethor, he will lose patience with Faramir's lack of progress and then a Council Meeting will commence on how to improve the situation.'_ Whatever decision was made, Lothíriel was sure that her cousin would be punished in some way or form. Packing her notebook and quill in a leather satchel, Lothíriel adjusted her riding skirt before glancing out the window. The sky was just starting to turn red, announcing the dawn of a new day, ' _And,'_ she thought grimly, ' _foul weather to come'._

The bloody dawn was a fitting reflection of how her uncle didn't take perceived failures gracefully. She could feel a decision would be made today, and whatever that decision was it was certain her uncle would always use words that would hurt the most. ' _And Faramir has always been so vulnerable to Uncle's ire.'_

A knock on the door snapped her out of her musings, as a young maid tried to hide her stutter as she cleared her throat. Speaking slowly, she announced that Lothíriel's uncle had requested she has a report of her findings from her work to be prepared by dinner. "T-The other High Lords of Gondor have been invited as well, Lady Lothíriel, with a few minor ones who have key ties in the prosperity of the c-city."

Staring at her nervous face, Lothíriel felt herself soften a bit. This one had been transferred to her household along with her brother a year ago, as a favour to her cousin Faramir. Her story was both a heartbreaking and common story; a pretty young girl, working as a maid and being an unwilling recipient of another Lord's attention, but unlike most versions of this story, _this_ girl had managed to escape mostly unscathed.

' _Faramir always did have a knack for figuring out a person's character very quickly, that Lord had lost quite a bit of standing in Court after that little scandal. He has so many skills that are valuable to Gondor, why can't Uncle-'_ Breathing out of her nose softly, she turned her attention back to the increasingly nervous girl. Small stature, pale and porcelain-like skin, with dark hair and light brown eyes. ' _Her name suits her. She looks like a pretty doll.'_

"Thank you Vaniel. Please let my Uncle know that I shall have everything prepared for him by then. Also, did my Uncle name the hostess for tonight?" Lothíriel would have almost no time to prepare if he had named her, but it would not be the first time he had challenged her with such a task.

"Y-your Lady Aunt was named to oversee the dinner t-tonight." She curtsied, trying to hide her flushed face as Lothíriel gave her a small smile.

"Excellent. I will be in the lower levels today, should anyone need me before dinner." It was unlikely that they would, but it was better to remind people just in case.

"Um, my lady! S-Shall I ask my brother to escort you? O-or would you prefer another knight?"

"... Sir Vanendil is fine. Let him know that I wish to leave in fifteen minutes. Notify the Stable Master to have Tuilinn ready and by the front of the building by that time." It only took a moment of thought to agree, as he was a trustworthy man for all that he had only been around for a short period of time. He would do nicely for her guard today.

"Yes, my lady."

Giving the young woman a small nod, Lothíriel made her way to the kitchens to pilfer something small to eat. No need to have the staff make her a full meal, her day would be long enough as it is.

Ten minutes later, Lothíriel stood before her horse, double-checking that the girth was on tight enough and that the saddle was positioned properly. Once she confirmed Tuilinn hadn't tricked the stablehands again by puffing out his belly, she gave the black horse a small treat.

The sound of hooves against stone caught her attention as a young knight rode up towards her, giving her a half bow as he stopped a good foot in front of her. "My lady."

Inclining her head in greeting, Lothíriel observed her current accompanying knight for leaving her residence. The young man had the same colouring as his sister, though his face had a few freckles and fading bruises.

' _He looks to be the same age as Amrothos…'_ Burying the rising pain at the thought of her brother, she cleared her throat as she told him her plans for the day.

"Sir Vanendil, we ride to the First Level. The Captains are expecting us." Mounting Tuilinn, they began the journey downwards, a considerable distance considering Lothíriel lived in the sixth level of the city. Fortunately, Sir Vanendil wasn't very talkative, making the whole experience more pleasurable and swifter than it could have been otherwise. Lothíriel instead tried to focus on the changes she could spot along with the city the further they went down, distracting herself from her thoughts. The upcoming work would require her full mental fortitude, so she couldn't afford to be bogged down within her mind beforehand.

Reaching the barracks, she left Tuilinn at the stables as a couple of squires and pages began taking the horses away. Giving her friend a loving pat, she strode toward the offices and the current meeting room for the Captains to strategize and work in. Sir Vanendil remained a silent shadow as he kept pace behind her.

Her face shadowed by her hood, Lothíriel inclined her head at the bows and greetings from the soldiers who recognized her.

"Good morrow, Lady Nonneril."

"Lady Nonneril."

"Best of luck with your work, Lady Nonneril."

Her guard glanced about in confusion as not just the soldiers, but the workers as well, referred to her by that name as they grew closer to the building.

"My lady, if I may be so bold as to ask, why do they call you Nonneril?"

"You are from one of the fiefdoms, aren't you Sir Vanendil?" Slowing down her pace, she pressed her lips a bit tighter to keep from smiling as he gave her a lost look at her response.

"Yes, my sister and I are from Lossarnach. We have been in Minas Tirith for about two years now."

' _That makes more sense if they were transferred over recently.'_ Humming in thought, Lothíriel looked around at the bustling buildings before replying.

"I have been given the name "Lady Nonneril" from the smallfolk and soldiers, for my work with my Uncle; both here and at the council trials hosted for difficult local disputes."

Shock crossed his features as Sir Vanendil tried to absorb that information, and his tone became more admiring as he actually pushed to continue the conversation."Do you participate in those, my lady? Is it because of your powers?"

' _A person's curiosity is a powerful thing.'_ Lothíriel mused as she nodded in agreement. "I make the proceedings faster when the court finds it particularly difficult to identify who is the culprit. Though my presence alone there is a warning for all to be truthful, or else the punishment grows more severe." Denethor was most unamused by the time being wasted or spent unwisely, especially when she could always be of use _elsewhere_.

"Silly thing really, I am hardly a truth-teller." If anything she was more of a ' _perspective'_ teller. It was just another sign of her uncle trying to control the flow of information. Another lie or misleading tale, like smoke and mirrors, to hide her true gift.

' _The wrong idea gets spread with such a tale. 'The wrong idea with the right result' as my Uncle would say._ ' Ignoring the too-loud whispers of her deeds among the soldiers, Lothíriel carried on as she tried to pull her mind back to more important matters.

Mindful of keeping her walk steady and purposeful, she tilted her chin a little higher as she knocked on the door.

"Princess Lothíriel, welcome. I trust your ride over was uneventful. We have a new batch of weapons sent from Osgiliath and Captain Faramir's men. Looks like some Haradrim blades were added to the mix." Tired, murky grey eyes peered from a smudged face, with dark hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks by sweat and grime. His entire armour was just as dirty as his face, and a squire boy could be seen cleaning a sword- most likely the Captain's- just to the side of the door.

"Captain Angamor, I thank you for your assistance today. I promise not to take too much of your space during my work." She inclined her head as he bowed, his movements jerky and out of practice.

"Right. Well… This way, milady."

A sense of sadness filled her as she watched him almost limp further into the room. The longer the soldiers stayed on the front, the more difficult it was for them to adjust to others outside of the military.

Following the man deeper into the room, Lothíriel ignored the stares and head bows of the other lieutenants and soldiers stationed around the room. Stopping a wince as the whispers and mutterings grew with her presence, Lothíriel vaguely wondered if she would always cause such a stir. Usually, this space was less occupied, but with the situation growing more and more dire… Sir Vanendil grew colder and more alert as more and more men poured in. By all accounts, it was seemingly to do their duties, but their eyes betrayed them; they were here to spectate and gawk.

Ignoring the men, her eyes were focused on the centrepiece of the room, where a table lay nearly overflowing with recovered items. On that table lay a series of weapons, mostly swords and daggers of all shapes and sizes, with the odd mace and lance adding a touch of variety.

Lothíriel could already feel her stomach turn as she braced herself at the number of experiences she would have to go through. Hiding her trembling hands, she took a small, shallow breath as she turned around to speak. Trying to keep her voice level, she raised an eyebrow at his startled look.

"If it's not too much trouble, could I use one of your smaller rooms? I would hate to interrupt and disturb the rest of these fine men during my work." She smiled faintly as he flushed in embarrassment before he called for his squire to stop his work and move the weapons to a small connected room that served as a study. The other men seemed to take a hint as they averted their gazes and went back to whatever they had been doing.

"Sir Vanendil, I don't believe there is enough space in here for the both of us." Keeping her features neutral, Lothíriel curled her fingers into her palms under the gloves, as she mentally counted in her head, trying to keep her temper calm and in place. Unless these men attended the court proceedings, they would have only heard rumours of her ' _gift'_.

' _Curiosity is a normal response to hearing tales of what I can do.'_ All of them were purposely vague on the exact way she ' _read'_ objects and to the extent she could do so. ' _Uncle Denethor's always prepared for everything.'_

"No trouble, my Lady. I shall stand guard outside."

Nodding in agreement they both followed the squire to the other room, where she gave him a small smile as he stuttered out his name and that he would be sending food and drink for them a bit later. Closing the door on the two men, Lothíriel gave herself a moment to lean her forehead against the wood as she ignored the aura of maliciousness wafting from behind her.

Removing her gloves, she took another moment to center herself, strengthening her mind with the conviction of her resolution. ' _I may not be a great Female-Warrior Elf from the old tales, nor like a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, but I can at least do this much. For the sake of my people.'_

Reaching out, she touched the metal and swallowed her screams as she was lost to the horrors of the battlefield.

* * *

"... while the Orc infantry knows very little, much has been gained from the Captain's. Memories of some of the Ringwraiths hunting "a weapon" was experienced in all of the Orc Captain's blades, though how many Ringwraiths were sent out is up for debate. They hunt the one who is hiding Isildur's Bane and take the path through the western border of Rohan to some lands further North-East. Other forces are to take over the routes they are using at a later date." The scratch of her quill filled the room as Lothíriel muttered to herself. Pausing to watch as the candle nearby flickered dangerously for a moment, she shook away her feelings of dread and continued to write down what she had managed to get from the weapons. Learning about the Ringwaiths had left her weak and nauseous, forcing her to take a breather so that she could throw up the little bit of food she had managed to eat before coming.

' _Boromir was originally supposed to ride through Rohan. But having lost his horse, he'd be forced to walk along those roads instead.'_ She knew her cousin to be a capable man, full of skill and stamina, outlasting many a man during long treks and giving a run for Faramir's rangers' money when it came to travelling on foot... ' _Yet by my calculations, he still has another month to go, at least, before arriving at Rivendell.'_ Gripping her quill tightly, Lothíriel shook her head to snap out of it and continued to write.

"The destination is unclear, as only general directions were imparted. Regardless, the Orcs have been tasked to put pressure on our resources and make it harder for us to reach out to Rohan for aid. All roads leading to Rohan are being overtaken, and the infantry forces are being constantly switched out - due to regular cannibalism rituals practiced by the Orcs, since they are not provided with sufficient food stock, and shifting of troop locations - which allows for them to be better rested and prepared for our men. More of them are scheduled to arrive by the new year."

Which, in part, was probably one of the reasons why Faramir had been struggling a bit. Not that she thought that this piece of news would garner any forgiveness from her uncle, but it _might_ spare Faramir a word or two of cruelty.

"Whispers of a new breed of Orc have been mentioned in the few goblin swords brought to the battlefield. The Orc Captain was not pleased with any talk about them, so very few memories were accessible to me on learning more about their weaknesses…"

Putting her quill down, Lothíriel rubbed the bridge of her nose as she tried to stop herself from dry heaving again; she had nothing left in her stomach as it was. The hour had grown late, and her entire body ached in pain as she finished her notes on the experiences she had been forced to endure for the last few hours.

A soft knock on the door had her wiping all fatigue from her face, as the nervous squire from earlier brought her a basket with the small meal she had requested.

"My apologies for the simplicity of the food, our usual cook is from the lower levels and they don't know much about food a Lady of your stature would enjoy, so-"

Taking the lid off the basket, Lothíriel felt something inside of her warm as she took in the small bowl of pottage, with a few cuts of meat added to it, along with a freshly baked loaf of bread and bottle of wine. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she noted he immediately stopped speaking and nervously waited for her judgement.

"This is perfect, thank you. You may return to your captain, and please give my thanks to your cook." The fact that they had added a better quality bottle of wine than she had seen before, would cause some concerns among the infantry and kitchen staff. Lothíriel made a small mental note to have another meeting with the remaining Ladies of Gondor to have more funds donated to the staff for food supplies.

' _Uncle has been focusing too much on weapons. Yes, a good sword can save many in the right hands, but lack of food can be just as deadly as an enemy ambush.'_ Suppressing a laugh as the squire flushed in pleasure at her words, he stuttered out his reply and bowed out of the room. Sir Vanendil peeked in as the squire left, giving her a small nod after checking that she was still fine before she closed the door after him.

Taking a moment to scan the table for any more weapons she might have missed, Lothíriel spotted just a few daggers unaccounted for.

' _Finally. Almost done.'_

As much as she wanted to begin eating, it'd be a waste of food if she was going to start heaving again… Especially if the food was a bit tight among their forces.

Stretching out her fingers, she gently cracked each knuckle, sighing in pleasure as the built-up tension was released from her aching hands. Checking that the door to the room was locked, Lothíriel carefully unpinned her hair from the severe bun and rearranged it to a more relaxed, partially braided, partially loose style. A low groan escaped her lips as the pressure from her hair being tied back too tight eased up. It was times like these that she wished that she was brave enough to defy her uncle and flaunt some more Dol Amrothian hairstyles; they were far more comfortable and suited her far better than the pulled-back look.

Grabbing a small hand towel and dipping it in a bowl of water brought earlier, she gently began to clean and massage her hands. ' _I wish I had my lotions and oils with me... I'll treat myself tonight after dealing with the Council. The Valar know I'll need it after handling them.'_

Looking over the daggers once more, she spotted a small ornamental looking one, mostly hidden underneath a larger rusted curved dagger. It was heavily stained by dried blood and mud, but Lothíriel's trained Amrothian eyes could spot the mother of pearl decorations on the sheath.

' _Now that's odd. Orcs don't decorate their blades at all, let alone with sea gems.'_ Drawing closer she spotted engraved words on the sheath in a very familiar script. How many times had nobles whispered that her mother must have known the harsh, bestial language of the Southrons? That she, Lothíriel, must be one of their people due to her skin colour and thicker body shape?

Amrothos had liked to joke that the people of Minas Tirith had clearly never seen a woman with curves before and were too used to the willowy, lean stature of their people. Still, that hadn't stopped the flinches, and sense of unease, as they whispered behind their hands and delicate handheld fans as they looked at them with suspicion.

Using the towel to grab the candle, Lothíriel dripped some warm water over the words, clearing up its shape and confirming her suspicions. ' _This belonged to a Haradrim.'_

The silence seemed to echo as she stared at the small thing, the shape and size hinting that it could not be thrown properly nor primarily used to keep an enemy at bay.

' _This is a weapon of last resort.'_

There had been a surprisingly small amount of Haradrim weapons brought to her from the battlefield, as the orcs were the main forces.

' _Any information from them would be invaluable to our people.'_

Phantom pains wracked her hands as she tried to reach out to the weapon. Wincing back, Lothíriel glanced at the door before checking once more that it was still locked.

' _Stupid girl, of course, it's still locked. What were you expecting? Sir Vanendil to just burst in?'_ Chuckling dryly, Lothíriel wondered if this was a sign to stop for the day. Pressing her forehead against the wood of the wall, Lothíriel gave herself a moment to just breathe.

' _My mother wasn't Haradrim, of that, I am certain but… it's not like I'm blind. To everyone on the other side of this door, she_ _ **looked**_ _like one... And so do I.'_

Stepping back from the dagger, Lothíriel accidentally bumped into her chair, jarring the bowl on the table and causing the water to splash out of it. Catching a glimpse of her reflection, she found herself tracing her fingers over her face. Her nose was a little wide and a little too long for Minas Tirith, whose women and men had sharper-looking faces, with small and straight noses. Her eyes were too wide, though at least she had the same eye colour as her Aunt Finduilas, a hazel-grey kind of colour that Lothíriel privately thought looked like the dirty walls of Osgiliath; tarnished, and not a pure colour at all. They sunk into her face, casting shadows on her eyelids that could pass as makeup. Her lips were too plump, not a thin, bow shape like the other women, and a naturally darker colour; there was no hint of pink on her lips.

' _The only thing I like about myself is my hair.'_ Framed around her face, her wavy hair gave her too round face a softer look; more appealing, if only in certain angles. They reminded her of the tides from Dol Amroth, crimping all the way down and difficult to tame unless braided.

Taking a moment to pull back from herself, Lothíriel gave a little bitter laugh at her moment of vanity.

' _As Uncle says, the substance is more important than the shallow looks of a primping peacock. I might not fit Minas Tirith's… No…_ _ **Gondor's**_ _standards of beauty, but that doesn't mean that I am lacking worth or value.'_ Glancing back at the dagger, Lothíriel cursed herself a fool and coward for shrinking at her duty. Inspecting it carefully, she noted that unlike some of the other weapons, it did not ooze darkness and evil. Instead, it seemed to be contained by the sheath, hiding whatever emotions were imprinted on it. It looked old in make if previously well cared for in a way that suggested it might have been an heirloom once. But it was clear that it had passed many hands, and would continue to pass many more.

' _Remember, this is for the good and glory of Gondor. After all...what's_ _ **one**_ _more horror?'_

Steeling herself she reached out to gently grasp the hilt of the dagger, while her other hand wrapped around the sheath and gently pulled it from the blade.

Gasping aloud, Lothíriel bowed over the table as strong emotions violently washed over her again and again and again, like the sea battering down rocks into a sandy beach. Flashes of women, so many women, of her skin-tone or darker, though some were perhaps lighter. All of them praying over the knife before giving it to many different men. (Their husbands? Sons?)

Battles, skirmishes, and war followed next, the blade never being used unless the enemy was too close or already dying slowly. Mercy kills, _compassion_ for an enemy who is like-them-but-not overflowed from this blade. The blade had been sealed in several different sheaths, each lovingly crafted or made by someone in their families. Love flared high, bright, and fierce as they gave it, a wish for the bearers to return to them. Dignity and grace were shown by those who carried it, honour for death without suffering.

Gripping both hilt and sheath tightly in her hands, Lothíriel felt her eyes prick with tears as the last wielder came to her mind.

A young man, no older than Erchirion, kissing a young dark-skinned woman, with beautifully soft brown eyes. An older, feeble looking man stood by, sobbing in anger and grief as he observed them. Tears streaked down both of the young couple's faces as other men came to pull him away from her, shouts of what could only be love as they cried out to each other, as the old man hugged the woman gently as they sobbed. The dagger in his hands and tied to his waist as he was taken somewhere else. Many close calls as he fought with orcs and other Haradrim against Gondor. Mercy kills being done to any Gondorian or Haradrim soldier left dying in the battlefield, a kinder death than being tortured and eaten alive by orcs and goblins.

Lothíriel sobbed as she felt his kindness, his disgust at working with orcs, and his love for the woman and old man he had left behind. This was no evil soldier out to destroy Gondor due to jealousy or greed. This was a simple man, conscripted and taken from his family, thrust into a war where he had to kill to survive, just to make it back home.

Death came to him as an arrow pierced his face. A quick if brutal death, her name cut-off and incomplete, on his lips as he fell. Gently letting go of the sheath and dagger, Lothíriel muffled her cries and tried to hold herself together.

She had felt his despair at knowing he would never see her again. He would never hold her, nor ever see her grow round with their child. His father, sick and weak, would never see him again. Lothíriel had been prepared to see many horrible things. She had been prepared for pain and darkness, malicious thoughts and perverse pleasure at the suffering of others. She had only ever felt pain from weapons, from deaths so brutal and slow, or vicious and quick. Hate and anger, fear and despair as lives were taken.

She had not been prepared for love, for dignity, for _humanity_.

' _Yet, this small thing…'_ Lothíriel felt herself shake as she sat down. Tears continued to stream down her face as she struggled to keep her breathing steady, and the candle blew itself out as she quietly cried.

* * *

Staring vacantly into an ageing mirror as a variety of gowns were pulled from her aunt's trunks, Lothíriel stood numbly in her white chemise, as she watched as the maids scurried about the room while her aunt stood at the centre of it all. She had arrived a few minutes after Lothíriel had left that morning in search of her, making her aunt's mood worse than a disturbed hornets' nest.

"What was he _thinking_? Does the man know _nothing_ of the level of work that goes into preparing a dinner?!" Her aunt had been ranting since Lothíriel had exhaustedly returned to her residence, repeating over and over how she suffered from "that impossible sour bunch of grapes!" telling her at the last minute to prepare a dinner for the High Council of Minas Tirith.

"Just because he can't plan a dinner menu to save his life doesn't mean the rest of us have to suffer!" Her aunt barked as she snapped her fingers, Vaniel and one of her aunt's maids began to brush Lothíriel's hair, before pulling back all of it into a seed pearl hairnet.

"Not _that_ hairnet! Honestly, do you lot know _nothing_ about Dol Amrothian fashion!? Only _Matrons_ wear a full hairnet; does this girl look _old_ to you?! Fetch the small one, pull the hair into a semi-updo bun, use the hairpins with the sapphires for Valar's sake and _you_!"

The poor girl flinched back in fear as her aunt pointed at her, nearly jabbing her in the chest. "Get her curls right. The remaining loose hair should curl just so around her shoulders and down her back. She was cursed with unruly hair, it might as well be good for _something_."

Lothíriel stared at her aunt as she faced Lothíriel again, all signs of previous anger removed from her face. Seeing she had a captive audience, Aunt Ivriniel picked up where she had left off about Lothíriel's uncle.

"At least _this_ time he cannot interfere too much with your wardrobe. While a little plain for the current fashions, the elegance and richness of the fabric cannot be denied!"

Lothíriel had gathered that she had missed quite the argument surrounding her wardrobe, and surprisingly enough it seemed like her aunt had scored a win in the verbal war. While she still wasn't as 'up to date' as her aunt would like, she at least looked more fashionable than before.

"Rich silks will do nicely! And with your colouring, we can show off the royal dark blues and mulled wine colours!" Her aunt continued to dramatically address the room, clapping her hands in glee as the maids helped her try on the different gowns she had called out. Tiredly, Lothíriel wondered if she should get something stronger for her aunt than tea; assuming her aunt hadn't already helped herself to spirits before Lothíriel had returned.

"Less trimming than I would prefer on you, but perhaps also having fewer gem fragments sewn on the grown will spark a new fashion. And I can't deny you look better like this. Such a shame about your excessive curves though. Your hips make your rear too big, and your breasts will simply bounce-free without proper support!"

As Ivriniel flicked her wrist at her niece, Lothíriel found herself yanked back and forth as the gown was ripped off her and another replaced it just as quickly.

"No, no, no you stupid girl! Not **that** one! The cut is all wrong, she looks like a pregnant sow. We need something that _flows_ with the curves!" Aunt Ivriniel sneered at her maids before storming to her trunks in a huff. Her voice carried through the room like a battle horn as she began to search through the piles of fabric, and she purposefully exaggerated her florid tone as she said. "You will never be a _great_ beauty by Gondor's standards, my dear, but you _can_ be an _**exotic**_ beauty. Those stuffy men up there think of you as nothing more than a tool, but it is time they see you for the _woman_ you are."

Holding a beautiful, deep sapphire brocade gown up, Lady Ivriniel finally seemed to be satisfied as she had the maids dress Lothíriel up. "Your mother always spoke about wanting you to be married and experiencing the joys she knew with my brother and her sons. I promised I would have you wed, and I will not allow your uncle to make a liar out of me. By the Valar, it's far past the time for you to have suitors!"

Staring into the mirror as a pearl necklace was placed around her neck, Lothíriel prayed that this night would end soon. After the upheaval of her work and straining her mind to write a report her uncle wouldn't find fault with, she just wanted to be alone for a while and try to recover her strength.

"Enough of that young lady!" Her aunt growled, before taking on a reciting tone. " 'A princess should look nothing less than perfect at all times. No ugly or bored looks should ever be seen on her face.' " With her quote delivered, her voice rose an octave in outrage, "I did not work this hard to make you look beautiful, just to have you ruin it with that expression on your face!"

Holding back a wince as her aunt wagged a bony, bejewelled finger in her face, Lothíriel leaned back slightly. "Yes, Aunt Ivriniel."

"Better. Now, have you been practicing your harp? Your spoiled, captious _carp_ of an Uncle wants you to entertain them after dinner. Apparently, he wants to show those other stuffed up peacocks the ' _glory and pride of the family line'._ "

"Yes, Aunt. I practice when I can." It was one way, in the quiet moments - when her thoughts became too much, and sleep gave her no reprieve - Lothíriel played for hours in the dead of night just to exhaust herself to a dreamless sleep.

"Prepare at least two songs. Hopefully, his compulsive need for rubbing it into the other nobles' faces of your gifts and skills will pass through him as quickly as all his joys do, and they can get on to more important matters."

Lothíriel held back a sigh at the sudden command, as it very well wouldn't be only two songs, and now she would need to have her personal harp hauled in so she might play without worrying about triggering a vision. It wasn't very frequent, as her uncle took pride in how austere and pragmatic he was, but every now and then he was hit with the urge to show off the family line. ' _Usually, it's Boromir who gets paraded around…'_

"Is cousin Faramir joining us as well?" She missed him. She ached to talk to him.

' _He would understand,'_ She thought. Faramir was ever the more gentle and empathetic of her cousins. ' _Maybe he can help me… understand what to do with all of this.'_ Yes, that was what she wanted. Some form of _understanding_.

"No, your _Uncle_ sent him a scathing letter of how," Lothíriel was treated to another one of her attempts to mimic her uncle's voice, " 'Failures should work harder, rather than come back and shame me so publicly.'" Unable to suppress a wince at her aunt's words, Lothíriel looked back into the mirror. Her face was a bit paler than usual as the maids touched up her outfit before deeming her perfect.

"He did however send you something to wear for tonight as if he could ever call himself a connoisseur of fashion to know what would match and what would clash!" Her aunt's voice seemed to softly fade from Lothíriel's ears as her attention was focused on a plain little box, carried in by Vaniel.

"If it's too garish, don't you dare wear it! Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, do you _hear_ me? I _forbid_ it!"

Vaniel trembled as Lothíriel thanked her poor maid; her aunt isn't an easy woman to be close quarters with for those who are faint of heart. Opening the box, Lothíriel took out the new pair of gloves sent by her uncle with a small note attached to them.

' _White deerskin gloves, fitted and embroidered with my favourite design.'_ She noted, stroking the soft material. Glancing at the piece of parchment, Lothíriel huffed in amusement at her Uncle's short yet elegant looking scrawl.

' _Straight to the point as always; "I noticed your old ones were getting a little worn. The weather is cooling, make sure to take care of yourself. - Lord Denethor." You're such a complicated man, Uncle.'_ Finishing reading it, Lothíriel gave the note back to her maid as her aunt peered at the gloves and deemed it _passable_ to wear tonight. Putting on her new gloves, she marvelled at the soft texture and the lack of visions.

' _He must have had these specially made so that no one touched it too much.'_ Lothíriel couldn't understand how one person could be so cold to his son and then turn around and send her this. It wasn't fair, why couldn't he show this level of kindness to her cousin?

"He goes too far sometimes." She whispered. Her aunt just huffed loudly as she sat elegantly in a nearby chair, gesturing towards the fresh pot of tea being served and placed on the small table next to it.

"Only sometimes? I can't remember the time he last restrained himself when it came to Faramir! He has forgotten how to be a father to that one. Boromir would do well to return as swiftly as possible, so his father would stop acting like a rooster fresh from a cockfight." Lothíriel took a fortifying sip of the tea, as she made herself comfortable seated across from her aunt. A gleaming look in her aunt's eyes got her feeling a tad nervous as she leaned over to inquire.

"Now, what two songs do you have prepared to play?" Stirring her tea, Lothíriel looked at her reflection as she thought of what would be appropriate to play in her uncle's court.

"My Uncle isn't one for overly romantic love songs, so I won't be playing The Lay of Beren and Lúthien." She couldn't play it and do it justice, anyway. It was too melodramatic and amorous for her tastes. Beren's lines of falling in love, at first sight, felt wrong to sing; it didn't feel like real love to Lothíriel, because how could you fall for someone just by seeing them dancing in the distance?

' _It gets better later on in the song of course when Lúthien's solo begins and they then do duets but… I don't think I have it in me to sing about their love and its trials.'_ Not tonight anyway. She was in an odd mood, and no happy song would sound right on her harp.

"Thank the Valar for small mercies. The fewer times that I have to hear that one yet again, the better."

Holding the cup in her hands Lothíriel held back a sigh, and she began to feel a bit more grounded as the warmth of the tea relieved her numb palms..

"Perhaps I can sing of the Valar? I haven't heard anyone play "The Ballad of the Vána and Oromë" in a long while."

"It's a terribly _long_ song, hence why few have the nerve to pick it; more chances to show they've less talent than they like pretending they possess. Good background music though, it will do nicely for this evening. And the other?"

Humming thoughtfully, Lothíriel carefully stroked the painted birds on the teacup with the tips of her fingers, recalling the more innocent times when she was just her father's bluebird. Hit by a sudden wave of melancholy, she looked away from the dainty birds flying freely on the cup and heard herself speak before she thought through the idea.

"What about "The Nightingale"? I know it's not a very long piece, but after the first song the guests might prefer a shorter one."

"... Missing Dol Amroth, Lothíriel? It's not a very popular song here in Minas Tirith, though still acceptable of course." Silence fell on the table for a few moments as they both were lost in happier memories of a castle by the sea. But Aunt Ivriniel quickly shook herself free, rallying to her previous levels of energy.

"Well, it is not a typical lineup but variety is good for the soul. Especially the souls of Minas Tirith, rigid and sour enough to make salt blocks with. Finish your tea quickly and we'll be off. You can tune your harp when we get there since I expect your Uncle to host you tonight."

Pausing at the door, her aunt seemed to pause before she turned back to look at Lothíriel serenely.

"One more thing, Lady Rhaweth will be among the nobles invited tonight. Do keep your composure when you see that wretched Barnicle, Lothíriel, we can't be having any public incidents."

Baring her teeth in a parody of a smile, she simpered in quiet glee, "Now, in a private meeting after the party, however… Well, we can always dismiss the servants. No witnesses work best in these kinds of situations."

Smiling weakly at her aunt's attempts to be comforting, Lothíriel once again prayed for the night to be over swiftly and without any issue.

"Yes, Aunt Ivriniel."

* * *

Finishing the last chords of "The Ballad of the Vána and Oromë" Lothíriel gave a small bow as everyone clapped. Her uncle looked even more kingly than usual; his clothes were of the finest materials, yet the cut was of a more simple design. Combined with his sharp eyes and neutral regard, he gave off an air of wisdom and strength.

' _Something that Aunt Ivinriel had been quick to claim he had lost years ago.'_ Accepting gratefully a goblet to refresh her voice, she took a moment to take in the room.

Candlelight gave the room a soft feel as the nobles chatted about polite nothings and occasionally things of substance. Dinner had been delicious, and her aunt had been preening at such a positive reception over the spread she had planned. Lady Rhaweth was laughing at something her uncle had said, charming the group into a more relaxed stance. Yet there was a slight tension in the corner of her eyes as she smiled a little too wide to be natural.

Gripping her goblet, Lothíriel drank more deeply of her wine as the Lady's husband walked over.

' _Lord Hirgon's presence has certainly caused a stir. The man is rarely in the city, and the fact that he's been shadowing his wife since they both returned to Minas Tirith for the first time in ages…'_ His hand by her elbow was a light touch, yet Lothíriel spotted how Lady Rhaweth slowly started to stop flirting and instead turned the conversation to another topic. Each time she appeared to be flirtatious he would touch her elbow discreetly.

' _It's been four summers now since the incident, yet it still casts its shadows over them all.'_

Catching her uncle's eyes, he raised his goblet to her, as he spoke out over the noise, causing all to fall silent under his words.

"Thank you Niece, your playing gives you credit. Dol Amroth truly does teach the best harpists in all of Gondor." Hiding a wince at the dig on her singing, Lothíriel bowed in thanks at his words, ignoring one or two of the younger ladies who smothered a giggle behind their fans.

' _They must be new to the court.'_ No seasoned courtier would dare make such an unsubtle mistake as that.

Glancing at them from the corner of her eyes, Lothíriel noted how the older women paled under her gaze before pinching the younger ladies to silence them. Once those same ladies had tried to take Lothíriel under their wing before she grew notorious in the Court for helping her uncle in the legal matters. Before true and false tales about her gift grew so big that the nobles and others alike feared for their privacy.

Accepting their head nods in apology, Lothíriel turned her gaze back to her smiling uncle, who was clearly amused by the little exchange. Spotting the paling and reddening faces of some of the men near him, Lothíriel pegged them as family members of the young ladies.

"Love truly did shape our world, didn't it? Hmm. Well, perhaps you have something a little softer to lull us off to bed?" Nodding serenely, she sat down and began to play a more melodic piece.

"Ah, The Nightingale. How sweet." Her uncle smiled, taking a sip of his wine as everyone listened to her sing the tale of a gentle bird and asking who would sing for them when they can't anymore.

"Her own sweet song is silent now. Who will sing for the Nightingale when she sleeps alone in the sun?" Lothíriel crooned, slowing down the song as she softly sang the last line, "When she sleeps alone in the sun."

A wave of applause filled the room as many younger women and men smiled fondly at the tune, while the older crowd was a bit more reserved, stealing glances at a smug-looking Denethor.

"And with the end of that lovely piece, I bid you all goodnight. My Lords, I will see you on the morrow for the meeting. And for those I don't, safe travels on your work to help keep this fair city safe. My Ladies, may your continued kindness towards Gondor's soldiers continue to keep our forces strong against the darkness of the enemy.`"

Strained smiles from the Lords and some reclusive Ladies filled the room, at his remark, while a few of the younger or more militaristic ones preened in pride at their efforts being praised so publicly.

Aunt Ivriniel made her rounds as she thanked the guests for coming, her sweet titters at the odd remark making her sound far younger than her years. Lady Rhaweth whispered something into her husband's ear before turning to move towards the balcony.

' _There's an entrance to the staff halls on that balcony.'_ Narrowing her eyes, Lothíriel stalked her movements as she gracefully distracted everyone who tried to stop her for a chat. Reaching the doors to the exit, Lady Rhaweth paused as her eyes caught Lothíriel's by mistake.

The woman lost her smile as she paled, eyes growing wide with fear, before curtseying politely.

"Ah, Lady Rhaweth, there you are! For a moment I thought you had left without saying goodbye to your host. Silly isn't it?" Aunt Ivriniel glided over cheerfully as she gently grasped Lady Rhaweth's arm and tucked it into her own, looking to the world as if they were the best of friends.

"I would never leave without saying goodbye, Lady Ivriniel. I merely felt flushed and wished to get a bit of air before making my way out." Lady Rhaweth gave a charming grin, as she tilted her head in amusement at Aunt Ivriniel. Her entire air seemed to imply that she was honest as can be, so much so that one who hadn't seen her panic might think it was sincere.

' _Truly a seasoned courtier.'_ Lothíriel mused, finding no weakness in the Lady's facade. Instructing a maid to have her harp moved to her guest room, Lothíriel hid a wince as her Aunt's tone grew shriller by the minute, catching the attention of nearby courtiers who were watching the whole thing _closely_.

' _The sharks have, of course, scented blood in the water.'_ Lothíriel couldn't understand how anyone would enjoy living in such an environment. Well, anyone who wasn't Aunt Ivriniel.

"Of course, of _course_. It was quite a _crush_ tonight wasn't it? Why your dashing husband could _barely_ stay away from you tonight! Everyone commented how beautiful you looked and how much your husband couldn't _stand_ to be away from you!"

Laughing sweetly, Lady Rhaweth waved her hand dismissively as she claimed they recently had decided to have a second honeymoon, to gain back some of the time the war effort had stolen from then.

"I would hate to bore you on such matters. It is slightly difficult to explain to an unmarried woman you see. I would hate to appear boastful to you so I'll simply leave it like that."

"Yes, you _would_ know better than most about _that_ sort of thing wouldn't you? No worries my dear, I promised I am not in the least bit offended about not hearing your prowess. I'm sure sonnets could be sung about the love between your husband and yourself." She took great pleasure in appearing as genteel as possible as she patted Lady Rhaweth's hand and loudly invited her to tea the next day.

"After all, you are one of the most influential women in the city. Now don't be modest my dear, it doesn't suit _your_ reputation. Let us instead speak of more important things. Like your sons, how are they? Still at the front lines with my nephew, no doubt." Her aunt gave a beautiful smile, looking much younger than her years as she fondly looked at Lady Rhaweth's face.

' _Aunt looks like the cat that ate the bird, framed the dog for it, and got the cream all at once.'_ Her uncle paused by the door, raising his eyebrow at the two women as they walked past him without so much as a "how do you do?''

"We must support our men, of course. And I will need your expertise in knowing how to best please our soldiers during these difficult times. You do know young men _so well_ after all." Her aunt's voice began to fade away as she directed Lady Rhaweth to the door, waving off the few courtiers that tried to interrupt her and instead strong-arming them to join her for talks of support instead.

Exchanging a look with Lothíriel, Denethor jutted his head towards the table before walking off, no doubt to speak with Lord Hirgon, who was probably waiting for his lady-wife to be released from Aunt Ivriniel's clutches.

Standing in the empty ballroom, Lothíriel looked around slowly. The staff had finished cleaning during the loud "conversation", leaving everything as spotless and pristine as ever.

Reaching down to pull off her gloves, she placed them on a nearby perch as she massaged out her fingers. Finishing her routine, she stepped closer to the now empty table, mind centred and ready for a quick peek into what the Lords and Ladies had left behind. Skimming her fingers across the top, she pulled them back whenever the array of feelings of enjoyment-discomfort-hunger-greed tried to pull her into a memory. Making her way up and down the table she found herself pausing near the end, as Lothíriel felt shame, anger, resentment, and a softer emotion from where Lord Hirgon had sat.

Pulling her fingers back, Lothíriel took a few breaths as she continued her journey. Ignoring the remorse, longing, resentment from Lady Rhaweth's seat, Lothíriel didn't find anything peculiar to report to her Uncle. Walking back to where she had left her gloves, she accidentally bumped into a chair and knocked it over with a clatter.

Wincing at the scolding the staff would get should she leave it as is, Lothíriel reached out and found herself nearly gagging at the wave of disgust, remorse, determination, and fear that seemed to grab her hands and claw up her arms.

Heaving drily, she took a step back and wobbled towards the hidden rope behind the balcony curtain. Ringing for a servant to come, Lothíriel breathed deeply as she stared in shock at the seemingly innocent chair.

' _Just who was sitting on it? And why didn't I feel that when I had skimmed the table?'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to ask any questions, write any comments or concerns.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know of your thoughts, comments, questions or concerns! ☺


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